


The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole

by Holly Sykes (Artemis8147)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Eventual Sherlock John marriage, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Frottage, Happy Ending, Inexperienced Sherlock, Kissing, Light Dom/sub, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Masonic Temple, Masturbation, Mild S&M, Mutual Masturbation, No Period-Typycal Homophobia, Oral Sex, Period Typical Smoking, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Slow Burn, Spiritualism, Top John Watson, True Love, Uranian poets, Virgin Sherlock, casefic, memory repression, the Ghost Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-20
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-08-23 14:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 90,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8331466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis8147/pseuds/Holly%20Sykes
Summary: “Love is simply the name for the desire and pursuit of the whole.”Plato, The Symposium“He who desires must pursue his desire though the whole world obstructs him.”Frederick William Rolfe (Baron Corvo)Britain, 1925Sherlock Holmes – young detective, violin player and virtual misanthrope – has been hired by a mysterious and immensely wealthy man to find the missing manuscript of a contentious novel.John Watson - doctor, ex soldier and widower - is older and disillusioned.They meet on a rainy night in Sussex and from then on both their lives are changed forever.As their tentative friendship turns into a more intense relationship, Sherlock and John’s big adventure sees them end up in Venice, where the mystery is finally solved.ETA 16th December 2016: The work is now complete





	1. The Divine Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Frederick Rolfe is a fascinating case of cult writer: no one cared for him while he was alive and he died in abject poverty. I based my story on the Symons' and Weeks' biographies, but I have (as per usual) taken many artistic licenses. 
> 
> Sholto Douglas is not an invented character; he really was a friend of Rolfe's. 
> 
> I couldn't resist (mis)quoting Sting's song Be Still My Beating Heart: "And I wriggle like a fish caught in dry land"; "I've been to every single book I know/to soothe the thoughts that plague me so." The man is a poet.
> 
> The characters belong to ACD and the BBC. The story is mine, so please do not post anywhere else without express permission.

_“To the Divine Friend, much desired”  - Frederick William Rolfe_

 

* * *

 

The night was dense and fragrant with mist and the salty scent of the ocean.

It had just stopped raining, and the lugubrious black cab lumbered along Church Road, past its scarcely visible Regency buildings, the Alder Inn public house – from which a plume of thick smoke emerged, cutting through the fog – and the Neo-Norman squat-turreted church of St. Andrew; it finally turned into Brunswick Place, stopping in front of number 27: it was a two-storey pebble dash cottage, with an untidy hedge screening the tiny garden from the street.

Sherlock Holmes paid the agreed fare and, gathering his stylish cashmere cape closer to his body, strode towards the front door.

There was only a faint light seeping out of one of the curtained windows on the ground floor, while the rest of the building was bathed in darkness.

The knocker was a badly chipped wooden affair which looked both worn from excessive use and ingrained with filth. The detective grimaced as he grasped it in his pale, elegant fingers and used it for its purpose.

The interval between the loud bang that ripped through the quiet evening and the footsteps that approached from the other side of the door was spent in rehearsing his prepared speech, but all words died in his throat when he caught sight of the cottage lodger.

Sherlock had only been given a perfunctory description of Sholto Douglas, but it wasn’t in any way tallying with the specimen in front of him: a blond, muscular man, small in height but not in demeanour, past his first flush of youth but still vigorous of limb and piercing of eye.

“And who might you be, Sir?” the soft, tenor voice queried, the shadow of a smile hovering on the thin, manly lips.

“I… come from London to see Mr Douglas,” the detective muttered, flushing at his own unusual lack of poise.

“Come in, please, Mr?”

“My name’s Sherlock Holmes, but please call me Sherlock,” he replied, astounded at the absurdities coming out of his mouth.

The man let him into a shabby yet cosy drawing room, where cheerful flames were dancing in the fireplace. Two velvet-upholstered armchairs were turned towards it and in the midst of them stood a table on which lay an open book, a teapot and a steaming mug.

“John Watson,” the man said, holding out his hand, which Sherlock hastened to clasp in his. He noticed that it was hard, callused and strong, but warm too; a hand one could hold on to in times of trouble and strife, he mused, blushing a little.

When he came back to his senses, he saw Watson stare at him with ill-concealed amusement and he suddenly felt a compulsion to impress him. He stared him up and down and before the man could react, he started to recite his deductions.

“You are a doctor, but you took active part in the War and were wounded in the left shoulder; this incident caused a limp that you can’t shake off despite its lack of medical reasons. You used to live in town but you moved here when your partner left you.”

He stopped and immediately a rush of shame and fear flooded his insides, when he realised that for once he wasn't indifferent to the contempt and reprobation he was about to elicit.

“Exceptional,” John marvelled, shaking his head in disbelief. “How did you find out?”

“I observed it,” Sherlock replied, sounding defensive. “You think it’s exceptional?”

“Quite astounding, yes; let me offer you a mug of strong tea, dear man. Your hands are as cold as icicles.”

The detective’s eyes widened at the endearment but he managed to assent by lowering his head and curving his lips in a faint smile.

The doctor limped out of the room and Sherlock was left on his own to ponder on the oddity of his own behaviour.

In the twenty-three years of his life, not once had he allowed his emotions to overcome his reason. Despite loving the arts, especially music, his days were devoted to methodical thinking and the application of logic. People bored and annoyed him to varying degrees, so he tried to eschew their company as much as possible. He had no real friends and as for lovers, he’d never had any. At times, when a melody or a painting pierced through the walls of his frigid reserve, he felt like a vessel at sea: dashed about, dizzy and imperilled. He had only a vague awareness of a strong, powerful desire that would undo him if he ever allowed it to surface, so he shut it down and cultivated a monastic routine: he was snowy white and unmarred, both inside and outside.

Until that moment, that is.

John – because he was already calling him by his given name, in his mind at least – came back with a fresh pot of tea and a plateful of scones.

They ate and drank in silence, ensconced in the comfortable armchairs and warmed by the lively fire.

“I don’t profess to be such a master of deduction as you are, but you seem too polished and extravagant for a policeman,” the doctor observed, as they were sipping their second mug.

“Extravagant?” Sherlock asked, more curious than aggrieved.

“The curls, the shirt, the cape,” John enumerated with a sardonic grin, pointing at the detective long black hair, his frilly white shirt and the red silk lining of the theatrical cape.

“I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world,” the younger man pronounced.

“And you came here to see Sholto,” John added, frowning as if in pain. “You are too late, I’m afraid. He drowned a week ago; his body was found near the pier, not far from this house.”

“I didn’t read anything in the papers. I’m sorry.”

“Yes, well, thanks, I guess. There didn’t seem to be anything suspicious about it; merely an accident, the Sussex Police said. He liked to swim and lately the weather here in Hove has been inclement.”

Sherlock dithered, not wishing to hurt his interlocutor.

“It couldn’t possibly have been self-inflicted?”

John pondered a little.

“I thought about it and in all honesty I couldn’t swear on it being impossible. I had not seen him in a long while and we’d both changed a lot in the meantime; the war and other things had intervened,” he explained.

The detective felt an inexplicable twinge of jealousy.

“You had been intimate in the past?” he couldn’t help but ask.

John didn’t hesitate.

“Yes, we had been lovers.”

“But you married somebody else.”

“Yes. Mary died a year ago.”

Sherlock feigned indifference, but he was deeply affected: here was someone who entertained relations with both sexes, while he couldn’t count one single affair in his non existent love life.

His expression betrayed nothing, he was sure of it: he was haughty and impassive, as always.

“Would you tell me why you wanted to see Sholto?” John finally asked.

The detective was unused to divulging his professional secrets and normally he would have scoffed and evaded the question.

“I have been employed to find a certain manuscript by a deceased writer named Frederick William Rolfe, also known as Baron Corvo. According to my information, Douglas was a good friend of the Baron; perhaps even the one he calls his 'Divine Friend' in the inscription on the 'In His Own Image' collection. I tried to contact him, but received no reply.”

John was deep in thought for a long time.

“His correspondence is being retained by the local Post Office at present,” he explained. “I do seem to recall the man. He came to visit Sholto one afternoon, long before the War. God, we were so young back then; mere boys we were, just like you.”

Sherlock was about to protest, but the man continued his narrative.

“He was a slight, priest-like creature, with closed-cropped auburn hair and piercing eyes; not like yours though, but colder, less beguiling. He had an insinuating way that was attractive to some, although not to me I have to admit; I prefer a direct manner or – in case of a reserved or shy temperament – a less self-absorbed nature. I recollect the recital of all his woes, which were many and, according to him, all due to the evil nature of his persecutors. I usually find that such claims are null and void when they come from the victim, and in his case I was sure he must have been to blame to a large extent.”

The detective smiled.

“Yes, I agree with your description. I did not have the fortune – or perhaps should I say the misfortune – of making the Baron’s acquaintance, but I had reached the same conclusion.”

John smiled in return, dazzling his young guest.

“Unfortunately, I suspect you won’t find any manuscript here. Sholto told me he did not keep any of the Baron’s papers since, when their friendship ended, he was asked to return every single scrap of it and he hastily complied. He was a little afraid of Corvo, of his vindictiveness.”

“I have been shown a letter that Douglas sent Rolfe. It was most intriguing, regarding the tiara of Paul II: he wanted absolutely to know how he got the tiara; he seemed quite desperate to find out about it. I wondered whether it was a coded message.”

At that, John laughed bitterly.

“Sholto worked as a tutor, but he was also a Greek and Latin scholar, so I suspect he meant every word of that letter.”

The detective mused on the reasons for John’s evident resentment, but did not press him further.

“And you don’t think his death has anything to do with the Baron?” he asked instead.

John’s eyes darkened.

“Do you?” he countered.

“I’m not sure, but I do intend to find out. And perhaps you could help me.”

“Help you? I’m only a doctor, as you so cleverly guessed, not a detective. Besides, what makes you think I would follow a stranger and uproot my life at a moment’s notice?”

Why indeed, thought Sherlock, but he was sure of what he’d seen in the older man’s eyes: a craving for adventure, for change, for pastures new.

“I think you are ready for a challenge, or am I mistaken?”

The doctor stared him in the eye for a  moment then shook his head, slowly.

“I don’t know what witchcraft you possess nor am I sure I actually want to find out, but you are right; I am done with the past and would dearly love to be in London again. I just don’t see how I could be of help.”

“I will explain all in detail, but for now what you need to know is that in the course of my investigations, I frequently stumble upon villains of the blackest sort and – as you can see for yourself – I’m not of a stocky, robust constitution.”

“That you are not,” John concurred, caressing Sherlock’s body with an intense gaze that made the younger man blush.

“Alright, I accept. You will tell me all of it tomorrow, on our way to the city. I’ll show you to your lodgings; you can use the wash-room first; I will tidy up and prepare my bags. Here, this way,” the doctor said, leading the way to the upper floor.

Sherlock followed him like a man in a dream: nothing was what it had been and the pulse booming in his ears told him that danger was afoot, but he didn’t care.

 

John folded the last of his shirts and placed it on a pile on the bed.

He didn’t have many possessions to pack; a medium-size valise would probably suffice.

The reflection in the mirror showed him a middle-aged man with bags and lines, but there was a new light in his eyes and a thrill in his veins.

It had been a long time since he’d felt so captivated by another human being, and it had never happened at first sight.

There lay trouble - he was certain of it – and he wanted nothing more than plunge straight into it.

His pain seemed to fade out into the background, leaving a vast panorama of future possibilities stretch in front of him like an endless ocean; he suspected the waves would be fierce, but he was man enough to dominate and vanquish them.

The past was dust and ashes, regrets and wasted opportunities, but it suddenly acquired a different meaning, of the same complexion that religious people assign to their strife: it was the path that had led him to Sherlock.

Naturally, his mind told him it was all codswallop, but his heart was more romantically inclined; the way the boy had blushed under his gaze had been exquisite.

And the length of his ivory neck, the rosy tinge of his lips, the flicker of long eyelashes on cut-glass cheekbones: every single feature was delectable, and made even more desirable by its purity. Because John was quite sure that the younger man was still untouched.

Years of experience, some of whose had been in the trenches, had left him in do doubt that he’d been sipping tea with an innocent youth. Apart from that, Sherlock was clearly of superior intelligence, wealthy and somewhat prickly. John had to proceed with caution, avoid jumping straight into the jaws of disaster like he had the previous time, all those years ago.

Baron Corvo had been of John’s persuasion too: he’d liked younger men, but in his case his preference had been purely contemplative, following in Plato's footsteps.

He sighed, remembering how besotted Sholto had been with the odd, malevolent-looking artist; but Rolfe had been only interested in their artistic ‘collaboration’, which had not proceeded much further than a stunted, unsuccessful collection of stories.

Once his packing was done, John looked around, remembering the days and nights in which he’d been content enough to call the cottage his home.

However much he wanted to linger inside these recollections, the present and the future beckoned him on to unvisited shores. He fell asleep with a smile on his face, for the first time in months.

 

At the other end of the narrow corridor, Sherlock was not as serene.

“Damnation!” was his blasphemy of choice, as he looked into the mirror, inspecting his troubled features.

Calmly, he tried to assess his actions and see whether any logic could be ascribed to them, but could find none.

He wriggled, like a fish caught in dry land, but there was no help to be found, and he suspected that even going to every book he knew wouldn’t soothe whatever plagued him so horribly.

The following day, John Watson would travel with him to Baker Street, expecting perhaps to be housed there, considering Sherlock had – after all – demanded his services. The detective waited for the horror that should have intervened at the idea of sharing his lodgings, but none came.

“Damnation!” he muttered again, as he tossed and turned underneath the cool, crisp cotton sheets, trying in vain to go to sleep.

Images appeared into his feverish mind of intimacies which he’d never sampled before: trivial acts, like sharing a cigarette or watching the sun as it set over the distant greenery of Regents Park. The proximity of another body had never interested him before, but now he half-dreamed of a strong, rough hand in his, and more: he vaguely thought of it caressing over the tender skin of his wrist, of his throat and down; blunt fingers splayed on his waist and his abdomen.

“Ah,” he cried out, quite unprepared for the spike of lust that went through him, quick as lightning. Afraid that he’d been overheard, he sat up and, between cold and hot sweats, slowly forced himself to calm down.

Luckily, he’d taken some cordial with him in a flask and, after drinking a mouthful, he felt more sedate.

If only he’d brought his violin, he mused. But that would have disturbed John, his treacherous heart suggested.

In this discordant frame of mind a few hours passed and when he finally fell into a light doze, the nightingale had already ceased his fretful singing.

 


	2. August Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation begins and so does the flirtation ;)
> 
> I will say this again and it's valid for the rest of the story too: characters and events are sometimes out of joint, especially time-wise, but people are mostly real and they interacted with Rolfe at one point or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Savage club features in Arthur Conan Doyle's classic novel, The Lost World. Trevor Haddon was one of its members.

_“We are vexed and cumbered in earth’s sight_

_With wants, with many memories_

_The hard sun, as thy petals knew,_

_Coloured the heavy moss-water:_

_Thou wert not worth green midsummer_

_Nor fit to live to August blue”_

_The Sundew (excerpt) – Algernon Charles Swinburne_

* * *

 

In the sober, greyish light of day, his decision was even more preposterous than by the gleam of the fire.

John Watson took a glance at his meagre belongings, at his well-used tweed jacket and sighed in resignation: his life didn’t really amount to much, he thought.

In his youth, up until what he imagined must be Sherlock’s age, he’d been filled with energy and vigour, he’d loved and lost and started all over again.

The War had undone most of his conceits and he’d come out at the other end of it a broken man. He’d been wounded a handful of months before the end of the conflict and had spent most of that time in a hospital in Kent, where he’d met Mary.

Women had never been his main preference, although unlike Sholto he did enjoy their society; but after his experience of love in the trenches – of which he still didn’t want to think of, let alone talk about – he’d felt in need of a drastic change which required a rejection of the ideals of his younger, more innocent days.

His marriage had been a happy, if nearly entirely chaste, one. Mary had been a loving, faithful companion and he would always miss her sweet ways and jolly laughter. She had died of the same malign growth that had prevented her from having kids and there were days when he interrogated himself, whether it was his fault for not having loved her more. A morbid fancy, perhaps, but it did seem that he’d been born under an evil star.

He shrugged his shoulders, picked up his valise and coat and headed downstairs, where he found Sherlock staring vacantly at the dead embers; he looked haggard and was evidently entertaining doubts of his own.

 

“I think we need to sit down and discuss this again,” John said, his voice sounding louder in the sparsely furnished room.

“Have you changed your mind, Doctor?” the detective sneered; his eyes glittered with scorn as he turned to face John, but he wasn’t fooled; he noticed that the younger man had been biting his lips and clenching his fists, in obvious turmoil.

“I’ll prepare breakfast; there isn’t much, but I should be able to rustle up some eggs, bread and butter.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue and went back to stare at the fireplace.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered.

“You need to eat; it will make you feel better,” John replied, firmly.

The detective glared in his direction, but said nothing.

The place was chilly and inimical, but Sherlock felt more at ease in it, as if ordinary comforts existed only as an impediment to his faculties.

When John came back, he was carrying a large, chipped tray laden with plates and tea implements; the teapot tilted for a moment to the side, like the tower of Pisa, but in the end all was deposited safely on the small table by the fireside.

“You could have given me a hand,” the doctor observed, with a grin that suggested he was aware of asking the impossible.

“I never said I wanted you to slave over a stove,” Sherlock huffed.

“Wasn’t it the reason you asked for my services; to preserve you from the clutches of villains?”

“I don’t see the connection.”

“Swooning for lack of nutrients while you run from danger: that’s your connection right there, dear man,” John explained, buttering his toast.

“I don’t _swoon,_ ” the detective remonstrated. “I’m perfectly capable of going for days with the mere sustenance of a frugal meal; I have trained myself for the purpose.”

“Your body will not be thanking you, Sherlock.”

The younger man was momentarily taken aback by the mention of his body and of his given name in John’s mouth. He gaped and blinked before regaining his poise.

“My body doesn’t matter; it’s only the repository of my mind,” he explained.

The doctor laughed, handing him a slice of buttered bread.

“You mind needs nourishment too! Have this,” he commanded, and he chuckled some more as he watched Sherlock flinch, as if he’d just been asked to swallow a slug.

He didn’t intend to give up, so he stood firm, staring the younger man in the eye with authority. Incredibly, it obtained the desired effect: albeit disgruntled, Sherlock daintily ate his toast and drank his tea.

“You have questions,” he then said, as John poured him a second cup of tea.

“Before we talk about this Rolfe affair, I think you should elucidate what you expect from me and what sort of arrangement you are proposing. After Mary died, I left the house we’d rented and my practice too. Sholto asked me to come and stay with him, but when I got here, we had barely time to reconnect before… the accident occurred.  I lived in London for a while, in the past, but it would take some time before I could establish myself there as a doctor. I have no connections, no living ones that is,” the older man explained.

Sherlock had been wanting to renege on his offer ever since he’d woken up, scared of having to deal with another human being on a permanent basis; and now that he was given the chance of doing that, his stubborn heart refused to oblige.

“My lodgings are spacious enough for two, John. I have a spare bedroom which has never been used. The flat is close to Regents Park; in Baker Street, to be precise. Your occupation would be to assist me, but naturally, if you so wish, you could also acquire additional work more suited to your abilities.”

“What will we do for money? You must have guessed that I don’t have any.”

Sherlock waved his hand to signify the triviality of the question.

“We will be more than adequately compensated for our services; the gentleman who hired me apparently owns half of London.”

John’s eyes widened.

“Apparently?”

“Well, my all-knowing brother told me as much, and he’s usually right; disgustingly so, I may add,” Sherlock stated, pouting and frowning in what John found an exceedingly pretty manner.

“I will say no more on the matter,” the doctor said, patting his newfound partner’s hand.

“Unfortunately, Mycroft will surely appear when you least expect it. He has a penchant for unnecessary drama.”

“It must run in the family,” John grinned, his hand still on Sherlock’s, distracting him into silence.“The unusual names, I mean.”

“Well, my first name is actually William.”

“Not, definitely not a William,” John commented, shaking his head.

“I’m glad we agree,” the detective murmured, relishing the touch yet fearing it too.

This time the embarrassment was mutual, and seconds elapsed before the next words were spoken.

“If you still are of the same mind, I think the arrangement might suit me. I’m willing to honour my commitment,” John said.

“Excellent” Sherlock exclaimed brightly, as he jumped up from the chair in elation.

“The train is in one hour and the cab will be here in thirty minutes. I have arranged everything.”

“Of course you have,” John replied, with a resigned fondness that would soon become habitual.

 

The carriage was nearly empty and they had the compartment to themselves.

At first, they simply enjoyed the warmth and comfort of the maroon velvet-upholstered seats, smoking the thin foreign cigarettes that Sherlock favoured and peering out of the windows before they fogged with smoke and condensation.

John was loath to break that fragile equilibrium, but he was also extremely curious as to the mystery that had brought the detective to him.

“This man called John Arthur Maundy Gregory came to see me. Mrs Hudson – that’s my... our landlady – was not favourably impressed, and she has infallible judgement; she deeply dislikes Mycroft,” and at this point Sherlock smiled wickedly. “Imagine a middle-sized man, plump, rubicund, with an expensive flower in his buttonhole, a glittering watch-chain and beautiful boots: by his hair of constant good living, it was clear he was wealthy, but the details of his attire suggested the possibility of something shifty, even illegal. When he related his demands, I found the case all too interesting to refuse his commission. As I said, my brother later on informed me Maundy Gregory is a very influential man, who will stop at nothing to obtain what he wants.”

“That’s not a comforting thought.”

Sherlock shot a piercing glance at the blond man.

“I didn’t figure you’d fear danger,” he said.

“I don’t; I was merely stating a fact. Please continue.”

“He told me he’d read the works of Baron Corvo and that he’d become enamoured with them. I’d never heard of the writer before, so he recounted the story of this lapsed priest who’d been thwarted in all his ambitions: he'd failed at every one of his endeavours, but nonetheless, despite his extreme poverty, he’d succeeded in completing several novels and short stories. The personality of the Baron, whose real name – as you know – was Frederick Rolfe I found unappetising, even repulsive, but also somewhat intriguing. He seemed to combine a ready wit and a considerable talent for invective and for coining new terms with a dark personality, constantly fashioning himself as a victim and spitefully parodying his so-called persecutors in his fictions. For this reason – libel and calumny – and because of his lack of popularity, many of his writings have been destroyed. Maundy Gregory is desperate for any original manuscript, but in particular for a novel Rolfe wrote in Venice. The title is ‘The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole’, which references both Plato and Aristophanes. Corvo was a self-styled scholar, not academically trained, but thorough and obsessive in his pursuits.”

John shuddered, remembering the myopic, goat-like stare behind the thick glasses; he found it interesting that someone he’d thought he'd forgotten until Sherlock mentioned him could have left such a vivid impression in his memory.

“It doesn’t appear to be a dangerous mission, considering the man is dead. Because you said he's dead, didn't you?”

“Yes, he died in Venice, but none of his papers were found on him, except for a handful of bills and a journal whose pages had been ripped out.”

“And Sholto's place was your first port of call, I gather.”

“Indeed; I was given a rather thorough account of the Baron’s character and conduct but only a few details about his acquaintances. According to Maundy Gregory, the only two people who could possibly hold a copy of the manuscript were Sholto Douglas and a painter named Trevor Haddon.”

“I have never heard of him.”

“He’s not famous: his paintings are nice, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Poor chap,” John commented, and a veil of despondency descended upon his countenance.

“However, he’s the other contender to the title of ‘divine friend’ of Rolfe's,” Sherlock replied, conveying more than the meaning of his words with a timid smile that went directly to the older man’s heart.

“There must have been other people in the Baron's life, surely” John suggested, in the same vein.

“He was a difficult, fractious man. Perhaps he found it impossible to open up completely.”

“I wonder if he really found his divine friend or whether it was just a desire that was never assuaged.”

After he pronounced the words, John saw Sherlock’s frown deepen and his lips tighten and blanch, as he turned to gaze at the moving landscape.

“He died alone,” the detective murmured, and his companion couldn’t refrain from patting his shoulder, lightly.

“A fate you most certainly will not have to endure,” he stated, and felt the tension in Sherlock’s posture ease.

“I had the distinct impression Maundy Gregory was deliberately keeping something back, something… unsavoury,” the detective said.

“A crime?” John asked.

“Perhaps, but I’d rather not cloud your judgement with my suppositions.”

“Unless your suppositions are right and may save us from trouble,” the doctor observed, smiling.

“I’m convinced Haddon will guide us to the next step in our investigation.”

“And since I’m new at this game of yours, I’m determined to trust you implicitly.”

The detective’s face was illuminated by a bright smile.

“Just like that?” he asked.

“Yes, just like that,” John grinned back.

 

London was even livelier than he remembered.

A crowd of smartly dressed, be-hatted men and ladies with short, bobbed hair and tight skirt-suits surged from every direction as they got off the train at Victoria Station.

Years of living in a small town had made John crave the effervescence of the capital, but he’d forgotten the Big Smoke could be overwhelming at times, especially inside the busiest of train stations.

“Are we taking the Metropolitan and District?” he shouted above the din, proud that he’d remembered the name of the line.

Sherlock was giving some instruction to a porter, who grabbed the doctor’s luggage with such speed and dexterity he could have been a street thief.

“Where’s my bag going?” John queried.

“Baker Street, obviously,” was the impatient reply.

“And we are not?”

At this point, he was running after the long-limbed detective, trying hard not to lose sight of him amidst all that confusion.

“Come on, John. Haddon is expecting us,” Sherlock called out, already half-way inside the first cab in the line outside the station.

“Are we really in a hurry or did you just do it on purpose to make me perspire?”

“9 Fitzmaurice Place, please,” the detective told the driver and to John: “I was proving a point.”

The doctor gritted his teeth.

“What point would that be?”

“Your leg,” the younger man replied, winking. “You weren’t limping.”

 

The Savage Club was an oddly intimate and sober place compared to the opulence of Berkeley Square.

They were ushered into a tiny, cluttered room by a stately figure that resembled a deposed royal.  The walls were almost entirely covered with paintings, mostly portraits of gentlemen, probably members past and present.

Haddon was already there, deep in his perusal of The Times: middle-aged, with a grey moustache, bushy eyebrows and a pair of rimless spectacles, he was the very epitome of respectability.

“Mr Holmes, I presume,” he said in a warm, soothing tone.

“Mr Haddon, this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson.”

The painter asked for tea, which was promptly brought and poured into immaculate porcelain cups.

“I’m afraid my news are not good, Mr Holmes. I have searched my archive, but as I feared nothing escaped the purge imposed by my beloved wife.”

Sherlock arched his eyebrows and Haddon laughed sheepishly.

“Let me tell you the story of my friendship with Corvo; it’s not a very edifying one, I’m afraid. I read some of his stories in an old edition of the Yellow Book and they impressed me so forcefully that I felt compelled to write to him. He loved writing and receiving letters and from that moment on we corresponded regularly. In the end, I convinced him to meet me and invited him to dinner at my house in Clapham. I had a most agreeable evening, but my wife instinctively disliked him, calling him a liar, a sponger and sexually abnormal. She said he filled her with ‘creepy loathing’. Our acquaintance continued nonetheless and he even lent me a manuscript of his book - Dom Gheraldo - which he wanted to dedicate to me, had I not stupidly mislaid it.”

“Mislaid it?” Sherlock asked, incredulously.

“I had advised Rolfe to hire the services of a literary agent. In our dealings with the agent, the papers were somehow lost. The Baron believed it was a conspiracy against him and never wanted to see me or talk to me again.”

He seemed genuinely crestfallen as he narrated his misadventure.

“My wife subsequently asked me to burn all the remaining correspondence. Like a fool, I did not make a package of them and handed them in to my bank instead! Believe me, Mr Holmes, I have done nothing but kick myself ever since!”

The detective sighed, but did not insist further.

“Why do you think your wife resented the Baron?” John asked.

Haddon shook his head.

“I’m not sure, but I suppose it was his shyness which could be interpreted as cold reserve. And he had this cult for the boy-saint William of Norwich, for whom he’d even composed a nice little hymn; he played it for us that night. I thought it was lovely, but my wife detested it.”

“Have you ever painted him, this saint I mean?” Sherlock enquired.

Haddon chuckled.

“Not my sort of subject, but let me see if I have it here…” he muttered; he went up to a desk and rifled through the contents of its drawers.

“Ah yes, here!” he exclaimed, waving a voluminous book in their direction.

The artist’s name was Henry Scott Tuke and on the cover of the volume was a painting depicting four naked youths in and around a boat, bathing in the sea.

“August Blue is the name of it; caused quite a stir when it came out, but the Tate loved it so much they bought it outright.”

“I can see why,” John murmured, obviously captivated.

A moment later, Sherlock had snatched the book from his grasp and turned it face down, leafing through the index in search of a name.

“It doesn’t say anything about William of Norwich,” he bit out.

Haddon had been momentarily lost in his thoughts, but he suddenly exclaimed:

“Tuke may be able to help you; I believe he’s good friends with an acquaintance of Rolfe’s. A Mr Masson-something, I can’t recall his exact name. Here, let me jot down his address and a message of introduction.”

As they emerged onto the elegant square, John felt Sherlock’s penetrating gaze on him.

“You were right,” he said, “Haddon did help with the investigation.”

“And provided us with a most welcome diversion,” the detective added, his voice as cold as the frigid winter air.

John was puzzled for a moment, until he realised what the younger man was alluding to.

“Images and fantasies are but pale shadows compared to flesh and blood,” he said, taking Sherlock’s gloved hand in his – the leather cool and butter-smooth beneath his skin - and looking the younger man in the eye.

At first the fingers lay inert in his clasp, but as his gaze became more insistent, they tightened, grasping back with desperate intent.


	3. A Minor Chord

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are in Baker Street, but the course of true love never did run smooth.
> 
> Flirting is getting a little more intense ;)

_“I know that even as autumn ere he goes_

_Spares neither lily nor rayonnant rose_

_So time shall spoil and scatter shred by shred_

_Your face's worn white beauty hard and cold”_

_A Minor Chord (excerpt) - Theodore William Graf Wratislaw_

* * *

 

 

John had barely removed his coat and hat, and was looking forward to the seclusion of his room to reflect about the events of the morning, when a loud bang made him jump; that deeply-rooted, instinctive reaction to shelling would never quite go away, he mused, bitterly.

Sherlock emerged from his momentary reverie and, witnessing the older man’s perturbation and immediately guessing its cause, he glared at the door.

“Mrs Hudson!” he screamed, but was too impatient to wait for a reply.

He strode to the front door and opened it wide with a theatrical flourish worthy of Henry Irving.

“I’m ever so sorry dear, but the gentleman didn’t want to wait,” the elderly lady apologised from behind a tall, burly man with a displeased expression on his sallow face.

John took one look at the intruder and move closer to the detective, ready to shield him from danger.

“Kindly state your name and the reason for such unmannered behaviour, Sir,” he demanded, in a clipped tone.

“Percy Hamilton Rolfe, Sir; I am here to protect the reputation of my deceased brother,” the man replied; his nostrils flared and his chest heaved in anger.

“Please come in,” Sherlock said, icily, while John reassured Mrs Hudson that everything was alright.

“Sit down, if you please,” the detective said once they were inside the sitting room; initially Rolfe refused to comply; he obstinately stood by the sofa, looking daggers and flexing his fingers like a boxer ready for the punch.

“You will be more comfortable, Sir,” John stated; his voice was low but authoritative and there was a stone-cold determination in his manner that brooked no argument.

A bottle of sherry was produced and eventually the atmosphere became less tense.

“My brother was a cad; there are no two ways about it. You must have been informed of the debts he incurred from early on in his life until his bitter end. All the same, he was family and I won’t have his sins dragged back into the open for the entire world to see,” Rolfe recited, his gaze moving quickly from John to Sherlock; his eyes were pale blue and prominent, his lips fleshy and his reddish hair had been combed and flattened to resemble a cap; he was extremely dissimilar to his sibling, who had the delicate features of a seminarian.

“Who informed you of a connection between myself and your brother? Sherlock queried.

“I’m a member of the Ambassador Club,” Rolfe replied, cryptically for John but not for the detective, who nodded briefly.

“Maundy Gregory did not tell you directly, I gather.”

“He never does anything directly,” the man scoffed. “But he made it known that he was buying Frederick’s works. He used that awful moniker ‘Baron Corvo’ and sneakily dangled the promise of gold, as his kind always does. Well, I told him to his face that he could keep his money since I burnt every piece of paper Frederick ever gave me; I asked my older brother Herbert to do exactly the same and he was more than glad to acquiesce.”

“But surely you’d want to keep mementos of your sibling’s genius,” John exclaimed.

“Genius, what genius? You haven’t read any of his works, I suppose; I’m not a literary man myself, but I do enjoy a well written story; that’s not what he was penning, no, not he! Illegible taradiddle littered with Latinisms and foreign words, all about priests, popes and Saints.”

“What about the stories he published on the Yellow Book?”

Rolfe’s face became the colour of beetroot and he almost spat out his sherry.

“That Frenchified rag; I would not besmirch my honour by reading such obscenities; there is such a thing as decency; things may have _changed_ , but those.. disgusting people seem to think that _everything_ is allowed,” he sputtered, indicating Sherlock’s frilly shirt with a moue of disgust.

John’s hackles rose and he swallowed twice to avoid uttering a blasphemy.

“To cut a long story short, Mr Rolfe, you want to prevent us from doing the job we’ve been hired to do, and in my book this is coercion. The law is extremely clear on the matter and so is my fist, which will land on your jaw if you try and get near Sherlock Holmes ever again,” he said, instead.

The man opened and closed his mouth in an apoplectic display of fury; after a while, he slammed his glass on the side table and left without saying a word, banging the door shut with violence.

“I shouldn’t have let my temper get the better of me,” John murmured, scratching the back of his head and evading his companion’s gaze.

“No need to apologise, John. He would never have left us alone otherwise,” the detective replied.

When John  finally looked up, Sherlock was already walking away.

“I hope you’ll forgive me if I leave you for a while. I’ll be in my study, reflecting about the case. Make yourself at home,” he said briefly, his back to John, as he left the room.

“Stupid fool,” the doctor exclaimed to himself, berating the impulsiveness that twice that day had put him in a position of weakness.

The unwanted guest had momentarily obfuscated the memories of Berkeley Square, but now they came rushing back, as sultry as sirocco.

After he’d clasped Sherlock’s hand and the young man had reciprocated, he’d pressed his thumb to the tender skin of the wrist, drawing circles on it, noticing the pulse skitter beneath his touch. He’d felt the impulse to kiss it and had been about to give in to it, when he heard a pained cry come from his companion; when he saw his face, he immediately let go of his prize: Sherlock’s eyes were filled with dread and his lips were bitten read and twitching.

“I didn’t mean to,” he’d started, wanting to reassure the detective that he would not do that again unbidden.

A mask of ice seemed to descend on Sherlock’s countenance; it had been as good a magician’s trick as any by Houdini: no trace was left of fears and tremors; where red roses had bloomed on cheeks and lips, frosted and virginal lilies had replaced them; and the darkened eyes became pools of clear, unruffled water.

“We’ll forget this ever happened,” he stated, and before John could venture his opinion, he’d walked away in search of a cab.

 

John sighed at the recollection and decided it was time to take care of practicalities. First of all, he went into the kitchen and checked the pantry and the ice box: they were well stocked with food and with random odd items, such as vials marked ‘East end mud’ or ‘Camberwell pond water’. He ate some bread with cheese and pickles, drank a glass of ginger beer and after tidying up, he went in search of his room.

The door was open and his valise had been placed on a wing-back chair by the bed.

He smiled as he took in the queen size bed, the large wardrobe and commode and all the other accoutrements that made the room a very pleasant and comfortable one. Evidently, someone had the changed the bed linen and dusted the surfaces, since everything looked pristine.

He unpacked his scant possessions and after a quick trip to the wash-room he decided to venture out for a walk.

No noise was coming from Sherlock’s quarters, so he made up his mind not to disturb him and left quietly.

 

Outside, the city pulled him in like a magnet: the crowded pavements, the filthy air and even the constant noise filled him with a sense of freedom he thought he’d forgotten.

It was a long time since he’d walked these streets and during the War, when he’d come on leave, the atmosphere had been subdued with an undercurrent of hysteria; now, there was a sense of life pumping back into its teeming veins, a throbbing that was made of joy rather than fear and hatred. He felt some of that life and joy spread inside him, but since he was not a coward and knew that sooner or later he would have to face his ordeal, it had better be now than after his enthusiasm had settled into contentment.

When he reached the tube station, he stepped down to the Bakerloo Line and took a train to Kensal Green. What a marvellous thing was to travel speedily from one place to another without having to wait longer than a handful of minutes, he thought, humming a happy tune in his head.

His mood changed as soon as he emerged onto the main street: he turned left and walked along the Harrow Road that led to the cemetery; this suburban area was not as noisy as central London, but perversely he felt more closely observed, as if the eyes of the few people he met were scrutinising him and his motives.

Inside the walls of the cemetery, the winter air seemed to turn even colder and the dwindling light even dimmer.

Weeds were growing wildly, embracing the stone graves like greedy tentacles; the statues of angels and Madonnas that rose amidst the savage greenery had been eroded by time and by the rigours of the British weather.

As he went in search of the War graves, he passed the monument to Isambard Kingdom Brunel and marvelled at the democracy of death, whereby a great engineer could be buried next to a nonentity.

And there they were, in perfect file, like giant teeth on that desolate mouth, the resting place of the dead soldiers. Half the seed of Europe, Owen had called them. Better not think about that poem, he wouldn’t want to bawl like an infant, not yet at least.

The inscriptions were not entirely visible, but he half-remembered where he should look and after a few false alarms, he stopped in front of a puckered slab, partially infested with mould and moss; the lettering was still visible, despite being blackened by the elements.

John touched it with the tip of his fingers and couldn’t quite believe that over seven years had passed and that the lively young man with the infectious smile would never live anywhere but in the past.

David Carlyle Thomas, he said it out loud, wanting to summon it once again among the world of the living.

He saw him as he woke up in the mornings, always grumpy and demanding coffee and a cigarette; or in the evenings, when he came back from his work at the factory, sweaty and black with dirt, but still so full of energy.

Things between them had deteriorated before they enlisted, and John thanked the stars in the sky that it had been so; the pain had been terrible already but would have been unbearable had they been as they were at the beginning, when he thought David would be his beginning and his end.

He chased those darker thoughts away, as they could not lead to anything constructive: he’d tread those paths so many times – the things he could have done or said – and he did not wish to do so anymore.

After moment of reflection, he bent down to kiss the cold stone and murmured a garbled prayer.

  

Sherlock had run an errand of his own, venturing out on foot to the Marylebone High Street from whence he returned an hour later with a bagful of books, one of which was a copy of the Henry Scott Tuke's volume John had so admired.

The sequence of the morning’s event replayed inside his brain like on a vivid diorama: John staring at the boys in the painting, clasping Sherlock’s hand and holding it tight only to let it go as soon as he realised he was being held in return, the regret in his voice and the way he’d looked, as if he’d made the most catastrophic of mistakes.

And then there had been the Percy Rolfe interlude and John’s intervention to, what exactly, to protect Sherlock’s honour? He grimaced in retrospect, but the truth was that he’d found it profoundly exciting, so much so that he had to speedily retire to his rooms to avoid embarrassment.

When he entered the flat, he realised John wasn’t there, but he resolved to ignore his anxious reaction in favour of a cup of tea and a bowl of soup, both of which Mrs Hudson had provided with her customary bullish insistence.

Back in his study, he reflected on the case and concluded that without a doubt the pattern that connected all men in Rolfe’s life had to do with a preference for the forbidden and the sordid. He leafed through the book and looked closely at the photos of the paintings: a weight settled in his chest, as he understood the qualities that had entranced John: it wasn’t only the beauty of those bodies, but their youth too. Young men in their late adolescence, pink-skinned and unscathed, unaware of their charm, but also revelling in their nakedness, proudly pleased of being observed.

Sherlock had never been that young and carefree nor could he ever be even if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to, he decided, slamming the book shut.

He stood up and went to make a couple of telephone calls.

 

In hindsight, going the public house had not been one of his best ideas; after the cemetery, he’d dreaded the idea of facing the world again, and his new companion even more. Not that he was drunk - that would have been truly idiotic – but the alcohol combined to the excitement of his new life and the uncertainty that went with it, produced a cocktail that contained all the requisite ingredients for what was about to take place.

The sitting room was cloaked in darkness except for the glow coming from the fireplace, but the silence was broken by the sound of violin playing: the plangent melody was reaching its crescendo and before John could fully take in the spectacle of Sherlock performing in a flowing silk dressing gown, it was all over.

“You’ve been drinking,” the detective observed; he delicately put the instrument back in its case and turned to face his companion.

“Not a difficult deduction to make, since I must reek like a distillery,” the doctor replied, suddenly on the defensive.

The younger man approached him with the silkiness of a panther and stopped only when he was close enough to smell John’s breath.

“Indeed,” he scowled. “You had to do that or you wouldn’t have been able to face me.”

“It’s not that at all,” John replied, curtly. Sherlock’s scent was a mixture of cut grass, smoke and vanilla soap; fresh and clean, in a way that asked to be smeared and desecrated a little.

“What were you playing before? It was lovely; sad, but lovely,” he asked, trying to change the subject.

“Schubert’s Death and the Maiden, but perhaps you’d prefer Death and the Lad, wouldn't you John?” the detective sneered, and unbeknownst to him, it was the worst thing he could have said.

John gaped for a moment: how did Sherlock know where he’d been in the afternoon? Had he followed him? Was he being manipulated by a crafty man who liked to play innocent?

“What did you just say?” he croaked, his face going as dark as the night.

Sherlock’s anger and resentment evaporated, leaving him undefended and scared.

“You heard me, John. I deduced that you,” he started, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

“What?” the older man egged him on, moving another step closer.

“That there was a boy in your past and that you,” was all Sherlock was able to say, before John grabbed the side of his neck and pulled him closer. Mesmerised, he let him do it, unaware that his dressing gown had parted open and that his chest was naked, from collarbone to waist.

“What belongs to me cannot be yours until I decide to share it with you,” John said, almost against the detective’s panting mouth.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock whispered, edging closer until his torso collided with the older man’s scratchy tweed jacket. It chafed and scraped his skin; it was deliriously perfect.

John regained his composure enough to let Sherlock go, but when he gazed down and saw the lithe, flushed chest, his inebriated wits left him once again.

“Look at you,” he muttered and placed both his hands around the slim waist, almost completely circling it; it was an intoxicating sight, that all the wine in the world couldn’t provide. “Oh Christ, look at you,” he repeated, and this time he pressed his thumbs to the soft skin around the boy’s navel and felt the muscles flutter beneath the abdomen.

“More, more,” Sherlock moaned, and it was only then that John felt that Sherlock’s legs were trembling and that his own fingers were digging into that tender skin, leaving marks visible even in the flickering light.

“Jesus, I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry,” he broke down, and lovingly carried the detective to the sofa; he lay him down and covered him up with his jacket.

He stumbled out of the room, leaving Sherlock in a haze of desire and misery.


	4. Key to my Verse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our boys go to Hampstead  
> More flirtation on the way :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Love in Earnest, the collection of poems by John Gambril Nicholson is what inspired Wilde's title "The Importance of Being Earnest"
> 
> Note 2: I couldn't find the poem William of Norwich anywhere. If you can, please share. :)
> 
> Note 3: Rolfe really did live in Hampstead at that address.
> 
> Note 4: The bit that Sherlock quotes is from Rolfe's writings and the same goes for the rough diamond comment about the poem William of Norwich.

_“But art is victor still through all the ages_

_And renders evergreen our sunny hours:_

_Key to my verse you are; and may its meaning_

_Every time you turn my volume’s pages_

_Rush forth to greet you like the scent of flowers”_

_Dead Roses (excerpt) - John Gambril Nicholson from the collection Love in Earnest  
_

* * *

John was still lingering on the edges of his dream – a breathless chase through labyrinthine alleyways after a man dressed in priestly robes – when he heard Sherlock’s baritone arguing with someone whose voice was undistinguishable.

“He didn’t threaten violence; it was merely a figure of speech!” the detective expostulated.

Despite a fierce headache and a vertiginous bout of nausea, he couldn’t allow Sherlock to be bullied for something that wasn't his fault. As speedily as his shaky balance allowed, he wrapped his dressing gown on top of his rumpled pyjama and emerged into the sitting room, where he found the detective in the company of an older man impeccably dressed and with the sour countenance of a squeezed lemon.

“Doctor John Watson, I presume,” the man said, staring at him with the same disdain of the cat looking at every other form of existence beside itself.

“Yes, Sir, and who do I have the pleasure to,” John replied, but:

“Pleasure!” interjected Sherlock, snorting like a displeased emperor.

“Mycroft Holmes, at your service,” the man said, with no hint of irony in his illegible eyes.

“I couldn’t help but hear your discussion; in case you were referring to the manner of my dismissal of Mr Percy Rolfe, believe me when I say that it was entirely deserved. In my capacity of Sherlock’s aide-de-camp, it is my duty to prevent any and every attack to his person, be it verbal or physical,” the doctor stated, trying to keep his gaze away from Sherlock’s person.

He was well aware of having been guilty of the most unpardonable of trespasses, but he would not make his excuses in the presence of a third party; especially not this third party.

“Very well put, Doctor; however, in the future it may be wiser to not antagonise a gentleman who might be useful to your investigation.”

“What do you care about _my_ investigation? If I remember correctly, you defined my profession as a ‘silly game of hide-and-seek’,” his brother countered.

Mycroft arched one eyebrow, but that was the only sign of real emotion on his face.

“It was meant as a compliment, brother mine. With your intellect you could have reached untold heights; instead, for some reason still unclear to me, you have decided to devote your life to solving these squalid puzzles.”

Even without seeing him, John sensed Sherlock’s displeasure and waited for the inevitable rebuff, and when it didn’t come, he felt compelled to look at the younger man: his cheeks were flushed and his eyes enraged, but there was something else in them, a tinge of shame, perhaps at being diminished in front of his new companion?

John couldn’t be sure, but what he knew was that he wouldn’t allow it to continue unchallenged.

“Squalid it may be, due to its intrinsic nature, but the retrieval of missed property, the saving of lives and the capture of felons should never be deemed silly. And if Sherlock can offer his help and be remunerated for it, I can’t see why you should make it your business to decide how he should live his life.”

The detective straightened his spine, growing even taller and Mycroft tried on a smile that failed miserably in the mirth department.

“You are very loyal, very quickly,” he declared, before saying goodbye and exiting stage left.

“You were right; he did appear when I least expected him,” John said, and Sherlock grinned; for a moment everything seemed to be alright until they both remembered what had happened earlier.

“Before I lose my nerve, let me say this: I was drunk and misconstrued your words. My reaction was unpardonable, but I would ask you to make an exception and forgive me nonetheless,” the older man said, his eyes fixed on the detective’s neck, so as to not embarrass him further.

“Once again, John, there is nothing to forgive. We were both intoxicated: you with alcohol and I with exhaustion and music. I shouldn’t have pried into your affairs.”

When he gazed at Sherlock’s face, John found it placid and unruffled, so he extended his hand to be shaken.

“Let’s make a pact: that we won’t let external occurrences spoil our friendship. What do you say?” he asked.

“Are we friends?” the young man whispered.

“If you want us to be, yes, of course,” was the reply.

They shook hands vigorously, both valiantly ignoring the spark that was ignited by the mere contact of their skins.

“I say, let’s have some tea and then you’ll tell me what you have discovered” the doctor said, heading for the kitchen.

“We can ask Mrs Hudson to prepare it for us.”

“Oh, I am sure I can take care of tea; it’s not exactly haute cuisine.”

“You speak French?” the detective queried, genuinely puzzled.

“I fought in France for three years, I should hope so. I’m not fluent, but I can muddle my way through a conversation. Milk and sugar or lemon?”

Sherlock stared at him in silence for a minute, before replying:

“Milk and two lumps of sugar, if you please.”

 

“I telephoned Inspector Lestrade and asked him to look into the death of your friend Mr Douglas. Not that I don’t trust the Sussex Police force, but, well, there’s no polite way to say this: country people tend to be rather dim. It’s the lack of stimulants that a city like London provides in spades. When you have nothing more exciting to look forward to than a game of darts at your local public house, it is hard to maintain a properly functioning intellect.”

John swallowed a mouthful of tea and a laugh.

“So what you are saying is that they are incompetent simpletons and – by the same token – so am I. No, not exactly polite, but I take your point.”

“Don’t be silly, John; you haven’t spent your entire life in Hove or thereabouts. Besides, I only want to ascertain beyond any reasonable doubt that your friend’s death was an accident. In case of foul play, I imagine you’d want the culprit to be apprehended.”

“Yes, of course. And what did the Inspector say?”

Sherlock preened a little.

“He knows me well enough to take my word as gospel. Besides, he’s my brother’s _particular friend_ , a fact that I try to ignore and mention to you only so that you may not be overly alarmed once you see them together.”

“Is that a likely eventuality?” John asked.

“Hopefully not,” the detective sighed. “My second telephone call was to Henry Scott Tuke. It took me a while to get hold of him, but was very obliging. Mr Masson Fox is a timber wood merchant who lives in Falmouth, but as luck would have it, the day after tomorrow he will be in London for the opening a small photographic exhibition held at a new art gallery in Cork Street. He’s agreed to meet us after that.”

“Do you think he has the manuscript?”

Sherlock shook his head impatiently; unwittingly, John noticed that his curls were tousled - probably due to their encounter with the young man’s nervous fingers – and he stifled the impulse to comb his own hands through that tangle.

“I don’t expect it to be quite that simple. From the start, I suspected that Maundy Gregory was toying with me and I let him, because I was curious to delve into the mystery of Baron Corvo. For instance, he could have mentioned that his interest was more than simply literary, that there was scandal or the threat of it looming over the whole affair; which explains why he wants me to do the ground work on my own, so that I would have nothing to blackmail him with, should I ever entertain the idea. He could also have me killed, but he must have known my horrid brother is working at Whitehall and thus had to discard the idea.”

John’s head was reeling with all this new information.

“He must really want that manuscript,” he muttered.

“The frenzy of the collector, my friend,” Sherlock stated, over-enunciating the last word, “I understand his obsession, for I have a few of my own.”

“Camberwell pond water?” John suggested, grinning.

“Just a sample for my research; I catalogue the variance of natural factors according to location and seasonality,” the detective sniffed, haughtily.

“It’s impressive,” the doctor conceded.

“My work demands it. I can sometimes eliminate a suspect just by ascertaining that the mud on his boots is not the same as that on the scene of the crime.”

“Astounding,” John marvelled, this time with more conviction.

“I fear that in this case it will be of no use whatsoever. The nature of the theft and of the murder, if there was one, is interlinked with the psychology of the deceased.”

“What about that of the culprit?”

Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair, ruffling them to ‘mad composer’ status.

“But don’t you see? Corvo was the spider at the very core of this web; he attracted, swallowed and spat out his victims and only by following the trail that he left, we’ll be able to solve this conundrum.”

“Perhaps he only caused things to happen without taking active part in them,” John said, and nearly jumped out of his seat when Sherlock took him by the hand.

“That is exactly what he was; how extremely perceptive of you! I wouldn’t have though you’d be so,” he exclaimed, only to stop dead and look horrified.

“You thought I’d be as dull-witted as those Sussex policemen, didn’t you?” the doctor asked, good-humouredly, and watching his friend’s unease, he insisted. “You imagined I’d just follow you around like a friendly dog and bite an ankle or two whenever you asked me to.”

“No, I, what I meant, I didn’t,” Sherlock mumbled, but John had burst into laughter and he didn’t know how to react.

“I would never ask you to bite anyone,” he finally said, sending the other man into a paroxysm of hilarity. After a moment, he felt his mouth curve into a smile and joined in the mirth.

“I don’t mind that you think I’m a cretin, Sherlock. Compared to you, most people probably are anyway. The important thing is that we can help each other.”

“How do I help you?”

“You came into my life with that swirling cape of yours, didn’t you?”

Sherlock nodded.

“That was precisely what I needed at that very moment and I shall never forget it.”

They quietly revelled in the warmth of their newborn friendship until John felt the first bite of hunger.

“Shall we dine here or would you rather go out?”

The detective’s eyes widened.

“There’s work to be done first, my dear chap.”

“I thought you said…”

“I’d like to visit the lodgings of the late Mr Rolfe.”

“But I’m sure that after so many years they will have been let out or sold off.”

“A fair assumption, but an incorrect one: thanks to the munificence of our client, the place has been preserved in its original state; well, aside from having been stripped of some of its contents, obviously. I have the keys, so you won’t have to perform any of your canine duties.”

John chuckled, but he would not be waylaid: first they would have something to eat.

Before Sherlock could put up a serious resistance, Mrs Hudson knocked at the door with a providential tray laden with stew, bread and roast potatoes.

The doctor thanked her profusely, but she only patted him on the shoulder, telling him that he had the hardest job, that of convincing Sherlock to partake in it.

“Why do you want to see his lodgings, if you know they have been scrubbed clean?”

“I didn’t say that; certainly his papers will have gone, but there will be traces of him that Maundy Gregory won't have cared about: his clothes maybe, or his books. You can tell a lot about a man from what he reads.”

“From the little I recall of him, he cared enormously about his religion. Even if he wasn’t a catholic priest, he could have passed for one.”

“That I understand, but still I hope we’ll be able to gather a few scraps of information.”

“Better get some of that stew in you then; the sooner you are done, the quicker we’ll get over there; I’m surprised you haven’t already been.”

Sherlock impaled a potato with his fork and regarded it with dismay.

“Sholto Douglas was a tutor, so I was afraid he might move from Hove and I wouldn’t be able to find him. Rolfe’s disused lodgings are not going anywhere.”

“Quite right,” John assented, pushing the bowl of stew in his friend’s direction.

 

Hampstead was not a salubrious neighbourhood, but Broadhurst Gardens was particularly dismal: a narrow road flanked by skeletal trees and decrepit houses with peeling paint and grimy roofs. Number sixty-nine was no better: a ‘rooms for rental’ sign was affixed to the rusted gate while the front door was chipped and so flimsy even the most inexperienced burglar could have made his entrance with minimum effort.

Rolfe’s garret only consisted of a small, commonplace room with a few bookshelves, an iron bed, an antiquated wardrobe, a wooden table, a rickety chair and a tiny skylight.

They had brought with them an oil lamp which they had lit before ascending the stairs. It shone eerily in that wretched place, casting ominous shadows and lighting up dusty corners and mouldy walls.

“Spirit gum,” Sherlock murmured, touching the area above the bed with his spidery fingers. “Here there must have been photographs, perhaps his own. He dabbled in that art; he even tried his luck with the stereoscope.” At which he sensed John’s uncertainty and continued. “It’s a system that allows the photographed object to acquire depth and solidity.”

“Sounds interesting,” the doctor replied; his voice sounded louder in that confined space; louder and rougher, thought Sherlock, losing his focus for a moment.

They opened the wardrobe, but found it empty.

“Come closer with the lamp. I want to look at the books,” the detective urged.

There was only a handful of dusty volumes: a heavy tomes about the Borgias, the novel John Inglesant, a couple of ghost stories by Hugh Benson and his 'The Sentimentalists' and finally 'Love in Earnest' by John Gambril Nicholson.

“Aside from the first one, I have never heard about the others,” John said.

“The Nicholson's is a poetry collection. You remember Haddon mentioning William of Norwich? Well, here it is.”

John edged closer to Sherlock, so close that a lock of black hair tickled his nose; it was fragrant, smoky; he brushed it away, but couldn’t chase away the scent.

“Do you think this Gambril man stole it from Rolfe?”

“Steal is perhaps an exaggeration, but he may have taken a rough diamond and turned it into a polished crystal.”

“You’ve read Corvo’s work.”

“Yes, most of what I could find. ‘I was a fool, a sanguine ignorant abject fool! A haggard shy individual, such as I was, could not hope to win the confidence of men who daily were approached by splendid plausible cadgers,’” the detective quoted in a soft, quasi-reverent tone. “Here, in this pitiful squalid room, I feel like I understand him completely; almost as if I’d met him.”

“If you’d actually met him, you may feel differently. Mrs Haddon’s ‘creepy loathing’ was not unlike the sentiment he elicited from me.”

Sherlock turned towards him, his eyes dark and glimmering and his chest heaving.

“Haddon confirmed Rolfe was a shy man; I understand that for a man like you this may be an unpardonable… flaw,” he spat out.

“Why this sudden change of heart? You said you agreed with me that he wasn’t a nice man, that he was like a spider within a web,” John replied, trying to keep his booming pulse under control.

“Change of heart! How I loathe this expression; as if the workings of the mind were to be reduced to a mawkish adage,” he hissed. 

“We made a pact,” John started, but Sherlock was so very near and his scent was engulfing him, like the salty breeze of the ocean.

“I was a fool, a sanguine, ignorant abject fool,” the younger man repeated, sounding both venomous and defeated. His lips were coral red in the half-shadow, velvety as damask roses.

“Not a fool, never that,” John whispered, and kissed him, not with his mouth only, but with his entire being.  

  


	5. A Thing Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk on Hampstead Heath at night.
> 
> John and Sherlock get to know (and like) each other a little bit better

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thanks to all of you for reading and commenting: feedback is a precious thing for every writer :)
> 
> Note 1: It was mentioned in his biography that Rolfe enjoyed walking at night on Hampstead Heath
> 
> Note 2: The coffee petition is a real thing! The anonymous 1674 "Women's Petition Against Coffee" declared:the Excessive Use of that Newfangled, Abominable, Heathenish Liquor called COFFEE ...has...Eunucht our Husbands, and Crippled our more kind Gallants, that they are become as Impotent, as Age. Lol

_“People have occurred to me with whom I should like to be in sympathy. But I have been unable to get near enough to them. I seem to be a thing apart.”_

_Hadrian the Seventh (excerpt) – F. W. Rolfe_

 

* * *

 

Their mouths were still conjoined when John realised that Sherlock was still and cool as marble. He could feel the young man’s rapid pulse beneath his fingers as they curled around the slender neck, but aside from that, and the butterfly flutter of the youth's eyelashes, there was no other reaction.

Another deluge of apologies would be ludicrous and counter productive - he thought - and as for feigning that nothing had happened, well, that was no longer a possibility.

Thankfully, or perhaps not, he was saved by Sherlock’s detached assessment of the situation.

“As much as I loathe saying this, Mycroft was right: you are very loyal, Doctor,” he said, his voice as frigid as his countenance.

Before John could object or explain, he continued: “I am glad of your friendship, but it need not encompass the soothing of my moods, regardless of how black they might be. As much as I admire your compassionate nature, I assure you that I do not need coddling.”

“If you have coped by yourself in the past, it doesn’t mean you have to keep treading the same path,” the older man replied, taking a step backwards to regain some of his composure.

He watched as Sherlock’s face shed all its residual softness; it was done in a moment, same as it has occurred outside the Savage Club. John understood it was the detective’s habitual mask and that he should not prise it away from his face, unless Sherlock decided to let it fall by his own accord.

“I can be overzealous at times,” he concurred, as he smoothed down his jacket and waited for Sherlock to make his move.

“It’s nothing to worry about; we do not know each other well yet. It’s only natural we’d make assumptions about one another, and that at times we might be wrong,” the detective stated, lucid and aloof. John was reminded of his station: he was after all a dependant of Sherlock's, living in his house and eating his food, not having proved himself worthy of his friendship, let alone of anything more personal.

“You don’t have to exaggerate now,” the detective noted, as if he’d read John’s mind.

“No, I’m sure you’re right, but perhaps I should follow your advice and look for some surgery work.”

“It was never my advice; I merely state a fact: that you would not be content just being my – how did you put it? – aide-de-camp and that you would want to breathe a lungful of fresh air, from time to time.”

John saw that any further explanation would only muddle things further.

“By the way, shall we get out of here? The air in this hovel is rife with misery and disease.”

Sherlock cast him an appraising glance.

“The ever practical physician is also subject to atmosphere. Are you a spiritualist by any chance?” he quipped.

John snorted.

“I do not partake in séances, if that’s what you’re suggesting. I don’t mind a well-written ghost story, but that’s as far as it goes. No, what I meant,” he said.

“What you meant is that there are places drenched in the suffering of their inhabitants and this is such a one. Yes, I can feel it too,” Sherlock agreed.

“Do you we need to take any of these volumes with us?”

“Not necessary; I have made a note of the titles.”

The night was cold and clear; the moon was a curved blade reposing on a sky fretted with stars.

“Shall we walk up to the Heath?” John suggested, unwilling to let such a wondrous night go to waste.

“Rolfe did that for a while, while he was homeless. He spent long nights photographing the shadows dancing across the snow.”

“Poor chap,” the doctor murmured. Again, he felt the magnetic pull of the tall, lithe man; his voice so deep and warm, and at times cutting and distant; and again there was that fierce desire to reach out and touch, but he stamped it down and kept his distance.

They walked along Finchley Road and through a number of narrow streets and alleys until they came within sight of the Heath; oddly, they kept silent along the way, as if they’d been waiting for the solitude of the woods to unburden their souls. From the top of the hill, they gazed down at the untamed wilderness and barren trees; the skyline – roofs and chimneys, church spires and columns of smoke – was incongruous and appeared almost superimposed to the moors-like bleakness of the landscape.

“I can see how Rolfe would be inspired by all this,” John observed.

“Yes, it is the richest of foods for the imagination, especially a morbid one. But you wouldn’t know about this plague,” Sherlock replied, trying to sound light-hearted.

John shook his head.

“Earlier, your words cut me to the quick because I had just visited a cemetery, Kensal Green to be precise.”

“The War memorial,” the detective murmured.

“Yes, that,” was the laconic admission.

“You don’t have to say anything that you don’t want to. As you said, it belongs to you until you choose to share it.”

John gazed around at the eerie blackness and – despite his commonplace temperament - he sensed the magic of its sensual embrace: nowhere else would he have felt more at ease while unravelling his tale.

“We met in a public house in Kilburn, of all places. I had been called for an emergency nearby; a man with a suspect heart complaint which turned out to be severe indigestion. David was playing cards with his friends; he came up to the bar to order a round and we struck up a conversation. In less than a month, we were living together,” he recounted, dreamily.

“And then the War intervened,” Sherlock added.

“Life intervened.”

There was a star-gazing interlude then John sighed and went on with his story.

“Something between us didn’t work out as it should have; I still can’t talk about it, but it was a subtle shift, no grand scale rupture. It poisoned the well, if you’ll permit the platitude. And then this wound between us became so infected that by the time we left for France, I was almost glad it was over. As for France, the sort of trysts that went on there, you can imagine,” he hinted, but saw the younger man wince.

“I forget that you were too young back then,” he continued “Let’s just say they were all brief and hopeless, and in some cases cruel and squalid. I can’t berate the other men or feel guilty, because those were unspeakable situations in desperate times.”

“Did you meet him again before he died?”

The young man’s voice was as soft as his lips had been; impossibly tender.

“Yes, and that was our greatest mistake. We both needed comfort, but not in the same way. It was awful, even more so because there had been the promise of something magnificent.”

“You wanted to spend your life with him.”

“I did, but it wasn’t to be.”

“Your wife,” Sherlock’s tones were as light as plumes, as invisible smoke.

“She was like a warm bath after an ice storm; I loved her in my own manner.”

“I’m sorry you lost her.”

John nodded and the craving in his heart intensified, became so vast it nearly drowned him.

“Here,” the detective said, offering him a cigarette. John set down the oil lamp he had utterly forgotten about and struck a match. The first one went out as his frozen hand was shaking.

“Let me,” Sherlock urged, and completed the task with careless elegance. He lit another one for himself and exhaled smoke from his nostrils like a practised roué; the gesture made John smile, and the younger man grinned back, conscious of his own showmanship

“I wish I had something to offer in return, but all my life could be summed up thus: an endless parade of tutors, more schooling, a vain attempt to escape Mycroft’s clutches and the invention of a profession which dashed the hope of a rigid, unwieldy family. A succession of pointless struggles ended in a rebellion unworthy of even the mildest definition of the term,” the detective scoffed, biting at the cigarette in frustration.

“You are only a youth; what _end_ are you blathering on about? Your life has only just started.”

Sherlock threw him a disdainful look, but it was half-hearted.

“Another platitude, dear chap?” he smirked.

“The truth and nothing but the truth, your Honour,” John jested.

“I’m older than my years,” the detective declared with a solemn air, and his friend chuckled. “What?” he asked, frowning.

“Oh nothing; only this is the very thing a youth would say.”

“I remember you saying you’d bow to my superior authority.”

At this point, the older man laughed out loud.

“I never said that and don’t suppose you’ll cow me into always agreeing with you. I will refer to you in matters of detection, but I won’t be your lackey.”

Sherlock shuddered at the image of a diminished John.

“That wouldn’t please me at all, my friend. Not for all the tobacco in the world,” he added, taking a luxurious drag and exhaling a cloud of smoke into the crystalline air.

“Consider me utterly convinced,” the doctor exclaimed, puffing happily at his cigarette.

By then, they were too cold to venture home on foot and the cabs were thin on the ground, but somehow Sherlock succeeded in conjuring up one, albeit rickety and driven by a cantankerous old man.

“Only beggars and ruffians are out at this time of night in this godforsaken place; which ones are you?” he demanded, between fits of hacking cough.

“What do you say, John?” the younger man joked, gathering his cape around him like a parody brigand.

“Oh, definitely ruffians of the blackest sort,” the blond man answered, winking, “But we won’t touch you, sir, as we are momentarily out of commission.”

They laughed merrily, but the man wasn’t mollified.

“If only our beloved Queen Victoria was still with us,” he muttered, as if the deceased regent could have prevented people from wandering about at night time.

 

When they arrived at Baker Street, they said goodnight and retired to their rooms; there was a novel, fragile warmth between them, or so it seemed to Sherlock, whose body was sensitised and tingling when he removed his clothes to go to bed.

He slid between the sheets and nearly sobbed at the sensation of the cold linen against his skin. He hadn’t touched himself in years, not with intent: he had night episodes, of course, which left him disgusted and humiliated, but they were fewer than in the past. This sudden desire for contact and rough friction was surprising and frightening; he lay face down and soon he was undulating against the mattress, rubbing his swollen flesh against the fabric; it reminded him of the scratchy tweed of John’s jacket and as he thought of that, and the sensory memories of that contact resurfaced in his mind, he writhed and spasmed violently, spurting his seed all over the bedding.

“No, please, no,” he murmured, in anxious prayer.

His perfect white world was fractured, his control frayed and he didn’t know where that journey would take him.

Horrified at the impermanence of his situation, he forced himself to sleep, clutching at the only anchor he could grasp: “John,” he repeated, and oblivion overtook him.

 

The morning greeted him with a surfeit of light: the sun filtering through the curtains was shining out of a cloudless sky.

He flinched as he smelled the pungent reek of his emissions and quickly removed the incriminated sheets and kicked the bundle to the other side of the room.

 “Filthy,” he hissed.

On his way to the wash-room, he was greeted by the aroma of fresh coffee; a surge of something suspiciously akin to happiness stormed his throat and he hastened his preparations so that he could face the newborn day with John.

 

“You know what they used to say about coffee?” he asked, as - immaculate and fragrant in his navy blue dressing gown - he sat down at the breakfast table.

John was already fully clothed and sipping his second cup of said drink.

“Good morning to you, your Majesty,” he said, plucking a slice of toasted bread from the rack and buttering it with energy. “I don’t, but I’m quite sure you are about to tell me.” And he was ready to bite on it when he changed his mind and handed it to Sherlock, who accepted it with indifference.

“Around the year 1670, some women petitioned against coffee, claiming if had _eunuched_ their husbands, crippling them like age.”

“Perhaps we should stick to tea then?” John quipped.

“I’ll have one cup of black coffee with sugar, please,” Sherlock replied, trying hard not to smile.

“I’ve made a decision, provided you have nothing else in mind. I would like to try the nearest Royal Dispensary and seek some employment there.”

“If I remember correctly, there is one in Bartholomew Close, not far from Barts,” the detective suggested.

“You don’t mind?”

“You are a free agent, John. And I do understand your need for independence. I imagined you would try for a Hospital placement, though.”

“With my occasional limp, I would not pass muster. Dispensaries are a good way to get a foot in the door. Besides, I like treating common ailments; it gives me a chance to understand the variances that may occur even within the humblest of diseases.”

“Your version of the Camberwell pond water,” the detective suggested.

“I suppose it is,” John concurred. “And what will you do with your morning?”

“Acquire the books we saw in Corvo’s lodging and read Rolfe’s Hadrian the Seventh and what other writings of his I have been able to find. I expect Inspector Lestrade will have some news concerning the affair in Hove.”

“I won’t be away for long,” John reassured him. “I want to be here, in case anything of importance should happen.”

The detective shrugged his angular shoulders. “It’s merely research work, at this stage.”

“The psychology of the deceased,” the doctor quoted.

“And what a complex and interesting one it was,” Sherlock said, not missing the slight clouding of John’s previously serene expression. “I would have loved to meet him; I suspect he would have taken to me,” he added, to test his surmise.

“I’m sure you are right,” the blond man said, through gritted teeth.

Sherlock smiled inwardly, but the contentment didn’t last; it couldn’t, he realised, when the point had been won by such cheap means.

“It doesn’t mean I would have liked him, not unless you count my predilection for unusual specimens.”

John smiled brightly and patted the detective’s hand, briefly.

“You would have probably found a way to stick his limbs inside the ice-box,” he said, and then, alarmed, “not that you’d ever do that, not with real people, would you?” he asked.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he lowered his voice to its silkiest pitch.

“Ruffians of the blackest sort,” was his fake-ominous reply.

 

John returned early in the afternoon and found Sherlock in the company of a man with short grey hair, kind brown eyes and a suit that hadn’t seen an ironing board in a long time.

“You must be Doctor Watson,” he said, with a half smile, “Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard.”

“Glad to meet you,” he replied.

They shook hands amicably and the Yard man restarted his narrative for John’s benefit.

“I was telling Sherlock that we couldn’t find any proof of foul play, which I am sure you already know. Hove is not London: if a stranger had arrived during the day and pushed a man into the ocean, somebody would have noticed. On the other hand, if the man had been well known to Douglas and had arranged to meet him there; well, that would be quite difficult to prove.”

“I didn’t see or hear anything suspicious while I was staying with him. But he could have received a letter and kept it from me.”

Lestrade shook his head.

“We’ve pasted a notice outside the Post Office, asking people to come forward with any scrap of information they might remember, but it’s a long shot, I’m afraid.”

“You could have telephoned,” Sherlock said, skewering the poor man with his glare.

“Your brother mentioned a knight in shining armour, so I had to come take a look,” Lestrade replied, good-humouredly.

John’s cheeks pinked a little and he scratched the back of his neck.

“A limping knight is not much of a sight,” he joked.

“Your search wasn’t successful, I gather,” the detective observed, immediately regretting his words.

“What search?” asked Lestrade.

“I’m trying to find occupation in a dispensary; a few hours a week, to start with,” John explained.

“Why, my dear man, I’m sure Mycroft would be more than happy to provide you with testimonials; his word carries a lot of weight around here,” said the Inspector, unaware of the daggers in Sherlock’s eyes.

“I’d rather do it under my own steam, but thanks anyway.”

Lestrade’s lips curved into a sheepish smile.

“I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I? Dear Watson, you’ll soon find out how these two are fighting an endless war whose rules only they understand. But I’ll leave you to your afternoon tea and go back to work. No rest for the wicked, what?” he jested and left.

 

John slumped down on the divan with a defeated air on his face.

“Surprisingly, nobody needs an old ex soldier with a bad leg.”

Sherlock poured him a cup of strong tea and set it down on the low table next to him.

“Don’t sell yourself short, John. Besides, I’m quite content you won’t be busy, as we are travelling up north; to a place named Oscott, to be accurate.”

The doctor sipped his tea, uttering a satisfied groan.

“And why are we going to Oscott if I may ask?”

“To see the Bishop of Shrewsbury, or to give you his full name: Ambrose James Moriarty,” he replied, a flash of amusement lighting up his impish features.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Bishop of Shrewsbury was really called Ambrose James Moriarty and when I read his name, I nearly fell off my chair. Coincidences ahoy!
> 
> Next: the story will start earning its E rating; you've been warned. :)


	6. Behind an Envious Fence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet Mr Masson Fox
> 
> Before that, there's some proof that Sherlock has a body that feels, after all.
> 
> Sexy times, so mind the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Mayor Gallery is the oldest art gallery in Cork Street and there really was an A H Martin in the Burlington Arcade that sold hats and umbrellas.
> 
> Note 2: Karezza (Tantric practice): a gentle, affectionate form of intercourse in which orgasm is not the goal

_"And all behind an envious fence, ah me,_

_That frowning says, Thus far, and then no more!”_

_Sour Grapes (excerpt) - Poem dedicated to Charles Masson Fox by John Gambril Nicholson_

_“I’ll always answer and burn your letters. Do this with mine.”_

_Excerpt from a letter of Frederick Rolfe to Charles Masson Fox_

* * *

 

Sherlock told John about the telephone call he'd received from the Bishop of Shrewsbury: the man had heard the detective was investigating Rolfe and wanted to offer his view of the dead man’s personality. He and Corvo had met while at Oscott and since he planned a visit to the seminary – and Sherlock wanted to take a look at the college where Rolfe had studied - they had agreed to meet there.

“How did he find out you were involved in this case?” John asked, mystified that a Catholic prelate could be interested in such mundane matters.

Sherlock laughed.

“You may be a man of the world, John, but I have seen the worst of human nature and one thing I have learnt is that men in high places can be as steeped in gossip as the basest street beggar. You also fail to see that the people who knew Corvo are connected like links in a chain; think of it as a secret society.”

“What, like the Freemasons?”

The younger man’s eyes widened.

“Yes, precisely!” he exclaimed, “I wonder if these two worlds ever collided. Although, Rolfe strikes me as someone who didn’t have a taste for the occult; he was very much a man with a vision entirely of his own.”

“Perhaps I should read his writings too,” the doctor suggested.

“Yes, I think you should,” his friend agreed, trying to conceal his satisfaction.

Thus they spent a pleasant afternoon and evening, reading, exchanging opinions and drinking sherry; dinner time found them sprawled on the rug by the fire, surrounded by books and stacks of paper; the fire has started to die and John had to get up to rekindle it; it was then that he realised he was tipsy and Sherlock must be too, as he was laughing shrilly at the doctor’s unsteady gait.

“We need nourishment or we won’t be able to continue our work.”

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled at the suggestion and he continued reading the reference book he had been consulting; he didn’t realise that John had left the room until he came back with a tray of cold meets, pickles and sliced bread.

“Listen to this: a practice of sexual occultism, a trance-like state in which the participants withhold both movement and physical satisfaction; a consummation without release,” Sherlock recited; John nearly spat out his mouthful of food.

“What devilry is that?” he asked, trying to regain control of his reflexes.

“I found the name Thomas Lake Harris on the margins of an unsent letter from Rolfe to someone named Aubrey Thurstans; there was nothing suspicious in it: mostly a memento of their past encounters in Rome, when they used to dine together. The name Lake Harris was vaguely familiar, but,” he stopped suddenly, lost in one of his musings.

“Well?” his friend insisted.

“Maybe Rolfe indulged in this practice for reasons other than the obvious ones,” the detective explained, draining his glass.

“Maybe,” John said, unconvinced.

“Karezza,” Sherlock continued, the foreign word sounding sinful in his mouth, “that’s the name of this… devilry.”

He went to pour more sherry into his glass, but John moved fast and prised the bottle from his hand.

“Not unless you eat something before. You are more than half way to intoxication already.”

“I’m not a child, John; I won’t be chided in my own home,” Sherlock sneered; he took the sherry decanter and filled his glass to the brim.

“Alright,” the older man said, calmly, “But at least tell me for what reason you are behaving so oddly.”

“What’s odd about the joys of Bacchus? You seem to indulge in them yourself, from what I have witnessed.”

It was a scathing reply, designed to provoke a reaction; John understood and let it pass unchallenged.

“Time for me to retire,” he said instead.

He deposited the tray on the side table and stretching his tired limbs, he ambled to the door.

“I would like to try,” Sherlock said quickly.

In the silence that ensued, the crackling of the fire seemed like a Guy Fawkes pyre.

“Try what?” the older man bluffed; he’d obviously understood what the detective meant, but didn’t want it to remain unsaid.

When the reply came, it was uttered closer to him than anticipated.

“That word means caress. I would like to, that is to say, I need to,” the younger man stuttered. John kept his back turned, ready to flee.

“Sherlock, we talked about that, remember? It was wrong of me to do what I did, to indulge while not in a clear state of mind; and you are behaving in the same vein; I’m not lecturing you, but I won’t allow you to feel as regretful as I did.”

“Was I so repellent to you?”

And the detective had moved even closer, since John could feel the heat emanating from his lean body.

“You know that it isn’t the case, but we can’t keep going back and forth like this. We have only known each other a handful of days, but I care about you.”

“And yet you won’t help me.”

“I will kill anyone who threatens your life, but I will not take advantage of you while your mind is clouded by drink.”

Sherlock inched closer.

“Last night in bed, I, something happened, and I don’t know what to do, John. I’ve never, not, and I was _scared_ ,” he spat out. “I’m never scared, and I can’t, I can’t.”

His voice broke and when John finally turned round, Sherlock had his eyes closed shut and his lips parted.

“Open your eyes, please,” he said and the young man complied.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’m afraid that in the light of day you will bitterly resent it,” he said, and it was increasingly difficult to contain his impulse to just say yes and to hell with it.

“What if we make another pact; what if we agree that tonight is special and that it will not be repeated or mentioned ever again?” Sherlock proposed, and his eyes were dark as the night on the Heath, and as wild.

“And what would you want from me, exactly? Just touching you with my hands or?”

“Yes,” the younger man whispered, leaning against him; there was that scent again, of cut grass and smoke; “Or, and,” he said, muffled, mouth crushed against John’s shirt.

“You want this?” the older man panted, inserting his hand in the gap at the front of Sherlock’s dressing gown, and massaging the flat chest with his fingertips.

In reply, the younger man let out a moan and his entire body was shaken by a potent shudder.

“Lie down,” John commanded, leading him toward the divan.

“No, here, please,” Sherlock pleaded, indicating the rug by the fireplace. His friend laid him down like a prince on a bed of lilies and undressed himself, leaving only his undergarment on.

The detective was staring at him with the enormous eyes of a starving creature.

“Would you like to keep your dressing gown on?”

“No, yes, just for a little while,” was the startled reply.

“We’ll do what you prefer,” John murmured and kissed the tip of Sherlock’s nose.

 

How shameful, he thought vaguely; mewling like a cat in heat; he would surely feel disgusted sometime in the future, but it couldn’t be helped. Not when John was smearing his lips down Sherlock’s body, breathing it in like an exotic perfume. They had just started and he was already lost: the feel of another’s breath close to his groin had elicited a rush of pleasure that still burnt his cheeks red like wine.

John had avoided his most sensitive places, and now they yearned for pressure and friction and wet warmth.

“Tell me what we shouldn’t do,” the blond man had asked.

“None of the customary acts,” Sherlock had replied, not clear-minded enough to expound further. He had not expected the lack of direct stimulation to be so maddening.

“Is this allowed,” John asked at some point, stroking the younger man’s neck with one hand and a nipple with the other.

“Ah,” the youth shouted and bowed his back to get closer to the source of that ecstasy.

“What about this,” and there was a bristly cheek rubbing his sore nipple while the other was being scrubbed roughly by a calloused finger.

“God, God,” he sobbed, wriggling to get completely naked; he didn’t want to wear anything but John’s fevered touch.

“Let me do it, let me,” his friend said, and he brushed wet lips across Sherlock’s now bare shoulders, cradling the boy’s head as it lolled side to side, as if nerveless.

He took advantage of their position to scratch lightly down the detective’s back, from nape to loins, insisting on the swell of his buttocks and on their partition; he wanted to delve into that musty darkness, but feared he wouldn’t be allowed.

“Please, please,” Sherlock begged, circling his hips in the ancestral search for release.

Before he could fall prey to savage lust, John deposited his lover back onto the rug and - pinning the angular hips with his hands - he bent down and nuzzled the tender skin of the boy’s lower abdomen, rubbing harder and harder, until he felt the wet head of Sherlock’s swollen penis slap him on the chin. He groaned and took a few deep breaths to rein in the craving he had for it; he yearned to suckle at the source of its juices, to swallow a throatful of it. Instead, he placed his hands on Sherlock’s thighs and splayed them wide, massaging upwards, pressing roughly along the inguinal crease. During all of this, Sherlock trembled and keened like a sufferer in the throes of torture while John tried not to notice how full the boy’s testicles were and how his arousal resembled a rose-tipped lance, for how long and pretty it was. His own state was best left unmentioned: his thickened member was leaking profusely and every inch of his skin wanted soothing.

“I need you on me, now, please, now,” Sherlock demanded, his voice thick with pleasure.

John covered that moonlight-skinned body with his own much stockier one and gasped at the bliss he felt at the contact.

 

There was a small patch of rough hairs on John’s chest and the chafing it provided was heaven and hell to Sherlock: heaven for it afforded stimulation and hell because it would never be enough. He was tempted to use his hands to hold John still so that he could arch and writhe to his heart’s content, but somehow he knew it wouldn’t be completely satisfactory; a great part of the pleasure consisted in his subjugation, in being ‘had’. “Oh, please, please,” he lamented, pushing up against the older man’s body. John understood and, holding the detective’s half-lidded gaze, he started frotting against him, with his torso and legs, bruising the peach-like skin in a sublime manner.

Their lips were inches away and Sherlock was drawn to them, wanting to be allowed inside. His lover must have understood because he cursed under his breath and, quick as lightening, licked at the detective’s lips with the flat of his tongue while emitting a pained sound from his throat. That wet kiss coupled with the feel of the sodden fabric of John’s undergarment plunged Sherlock from molten lava into roaring fire.

“I can’t, John, I can’t,” he wailed.

“Hush, I’m here, I’m here,” was the reply, and before the young man could think what it meant, his aching flesh was being engulfed by a warm mouth and in a moment, he cried out and pulsed inside it, wave after wave of ecstatic release.

An eternity later, he heard John’s laboured breathing and shame burnt his cheeks.

“I couldn’t control it; I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, but his friend crawled up his body to look him in the eye with undisguised tenderness. His countenance was tense with exhaustion and some other feeling Sherlock couldn’t parse.

“Of course you couldn’t; there’s no shame in it and anyway there’s no evidence left of your vulnerability, if that’s what you think it was.”

“I apologize you had to endure that.”

John laughed merrily.

“Can paradise be endured?” he said, smiling softly. “Come on, let me help you to the wash-room.”

And before Sherlock could enquire about John’s pleasure, he found that he was being swaddled into his dressing gown and bodily carried to the place in question, where he was left, still dazed, to contemplate the spectacle of his blotchy, bruised skin in the cheval mirror. Before he could stifle it, a slow, contented smile curved his lips.

 

In the meantime, John hurried to his room and fell on the bed, desperate to let go of the tension coiling deep in his belly. He removed the sodden garment and, with Sherlock’s taste still in his mouth, he spent with a violence he hadn’t experienced in years.

“Sweet boy, oh darling, darling,” he moaned. When he quieted down, the air of the room cold and unfriendly, he surveyed the events of the evenings with distressing clarity: he was in love and from then on, he’d have to pretend he wasn’t.

 

Piccadilly was teeming with life that morning and the Burlington Arcade was no exception: elegant couples were strolling along the length of it, and self-satisfied businessmen were having their shoes polished by deft-fingered urchins in full view of the passing crowd.

On their way to meet Charles Masson Fox at a café on Vigo Street, John and Sherlock were walking briskly without a single glance at the luxurious merchandise on display.

That was so until the doctor turned to say something to his companion only to find an empty space where he had stood only a moment before.

“Sherlock?” he called and finally saw the young man seemingly trying to hide in the alcove to the side of the bow window of a shop trading under the name “A. H. Martin” selling hats and umbrellas.

“What,” he started, but was silenced by his friend, who placed his index finger on his lips.

“Mycroft’s inside, surely pretending to buy something,” Sherlock hissed in his ear.

“Maybe he really _is_ buying something,” John added, glancing inside the latticed window: the tall man inside the shop was in the act of inspecting a brolly.

“Don’t be naïve, John. Why would he be purchasing anything himself when he has countless underlings who can do it for him? He’s here to spy on me, the scheming rogue!”

“Why would he stop here, if that were the case?”

Sherlock threw him a contemptuous look.

“To taunt me with his nonchalance, obviously,” he replied, taking John by the arm and leading him away.

“I doubt he would be so brazen to intrude on our conversation with Masson Fox.”

“Of course not, John; he merely wanted me to know that he’s one step ahead of me.”

“Maybe he just aims to protect you,” the older man ventured.

“Protect me,” Sherlock protested, his whole being exuding distaste.

Before the meeting, they had agreed  to visit the Cork Street gallery since the detective wanted to see what sort of exhibition had induced a busy man to travel from Falmouth to London.

Unfortunately, their curiosity was not to be satisfied, as the window of the Mayor Gallery was covered by a black screen on which stood a single gilt-framed photograph of a Greek temple.

“Taormina,” Sherlock said and, seeing John’s blank expression. “That’s the ancient Greek temple of Taormina. This doesn’t tell us anything and I imagine any attempt to find out would be met with a demand to produce an invitation that we do not possess. Let’s go, my friend.”

Thomas’s café was almost full, but the waiter immediately directed them to a secluded table where a robust, middle aged man with a florid moustache was already waiting for them.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet us,” Sherlock said, shaking the man’s strong hand.

“My pleasure,” Masson Fox said pleasantly, barely glancing at John.

“We were early so we thought we would take a look at the gallery, but we were out of luck,” he said, with evident spite.

Masson Fox’s expression became more guarded, but he was still smiling when he replied.

“Oh, it’s easily explained: a friend of mine and Tuke’s has hired the gallery for a private showing of his photographs, but since he deems they are not worthy of the public’s attention, he has limited the access to our small circle. He’s very shy, you see? He won’t even allow us to say his name.”

“Odd sort of artist, one who doesn’t want publicity,” stated Sherlock.

“Indeed, but who are we to criticise genius? Anyway, I believe you wanted to talk about the late Mr Rolfe. Not that I have much to say: he wrote to me from Venice, detailed accounts of his life there, some of which was fairly picturesque, but he asked me to burn the correspondence, and said he would do the same with mine. I saw no reason to disobey him.”

“It was quite the habit with Rolfe and his acquaintances to burn papers; almost a congregation of pyromaniacs, from what I can tell,” intervened John, who was extremely annoyed by the appraising glances Masson Fox was devoting to Sherlock.

The burly gave him a shark-like smile and a look that conveyed his understanding of the situation.

“There are times, dear man, when life is best lived rather than consigned to paper.”

“But what did they say, those letters?” Sherlock asked

For a moment, Masson Fox seemed genuinely at a loss for words, but he recovered with panache.

“You must know that Rolfe was always in need of money and someone, Nicholson I believe, must have told him I could be of help. He sent me sordid descriptions of the goings-on in the dark alley ways of Venice, hoping that I would pay for a more detailed account of those squalid encounters,” he explained.

John saw Sherlock’s embarrassment even though the detective tried to conceal it by taking long sips of coffee.

“He was peddling sensual literature on commission, you are saying. But you didn’t agree to that,” he said.

“Of course not!” the man exclaimed. “You might as well know, since you’ll find out anyway, that in the past I was accused by an avid woman of seducing her young son. I was acquitted, but it nearly ruined my reputation. The wretched woman was after money too, naturally. After that episode, I have tried to steer clear of such things that could be perceived as controversial. My life is devoted to my work and to fairy chess.”

“To what?” the doctor queried, puzzled.

“Unorthodox chess problems,” Sherlock explained, evincing an admiring glance from the Falmouth man, which had John on the verge of a first-class scowl.

“Is there nothing more you can tell us about Rolfe then?” the detective insisted, secretly enjoying his friend’s jealousy.

“I have been a businessman for most of my life, dear boy, and I wouldn’t have met with success had I not learnt to size up my fellow men. Rolfe was an eminently vain man and I doubt he would have dispensed with the entirety of his papers. He must have left them with someone he loved and trusted, and I am not talking about his family. Cherchez l’ami, to misuse a famous French adage,” he added, laughing at his bad pronunciation.

“Thanks for giving us some of your time,” Sherlock offered, as they rose to leave.

“My absolute pleasure,” Masson Fox replied, holding his hand for a second longer than needed, and nodding distractedly in John’s direction.

“I’m starting to appreciate your brother’s efforts. Never more than today was I convinced that the world is a nasty place!” the doctor exclaimed, as they walked down Regent Street.

“Why would I need Mycroft’s help when I have you?” Sherlock said, and for the first time that morning, John noticed how beautiful the city was and how immensely glad he was to be alive in it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Oscott and Moriarty the Bishop, ha ha


	7. Time to go Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys meet Moriarty. Let's just say John doesn't like him. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: obviously the real Bishop of Shrewsbury was a perfectly nice chap. 
> 
> As for my views on the catholic church, whatever they may be, they are not expressed in this work, which is fiction mixed with the real events of Rolfe's life (he was really ejected from Oscott).
> 
> Same goes for the photos published in The Studio, they were really of naked boys posing as Saints.  
> Many of Wilhelm von Gloeden's negatives were seized by Mussolini in the 1930s and destroyed as pornography.

_“The sun has gone down, but it will rise again. It is time to go home.”_

_Excerpt from the novel John Inglesant and the last words Rolfe spoke to his friend Vincent O’Sullivan_

* * *

 

Ever since he’d set eyes on Sherlock, John had been certain that the young man was one of a kind, but even so he’d not expected he would be so utterly mystifying: a large part of him was ignorant of all things pertaining to sentiment and human relationships while the other was a fountain of knowledge that encompassed both the fundamental and the trivial. For instance, he knew the route to Oscott without having to consult a map and barely casting a glance at the Railway guide.

“Marylebone Station to Birmingham then we’ll take a car to St. Mary’s College. If we leave at eight in the morning, we’ll be there well before lunch-time. These religious bigwigs like to uphold their rigid schedules,” he’d said, as they dined on humble pie-and-mash that Mrs Hudson had provided thinking, quite rightly, that it would make John happy. Sherlock, naturally, had put on his haughtiest scowl but had ended up eating his entire portion.

John’s day had been spent on another fruitless employment search and he suspected Sherlock had done little aside from reading and smoking. In fact, the detective had been to the British Library to consult their archive of overseas newspapers and had made a few interesting discoveries.

They had talked and behaved as if nothing odd had happened, as if they’d never held each other in the most passionate ways, but after dinner Sherlock had felt compelled to take out his violin and play piece after piece until John had left him to his own devices, barely whispering a ‘goodnight’ to which there had been no audible reply.

 

As soon as they were comfortably ensconced in their seats, once again unusually alone in their compartment, Sherlock’s glittering eyes signalled he had some news he wished to impart.

“Wilhelm von Gloeden,” he declared, clearly very pleased with himself.

“Sounds like a very important chap,” John replied, feigning indifference.

“He’s a German Baron.”

“Not another one!”

“In many ways, it’s precisely what he is. Not a real Baron, from what I can tell; merely purporting to be one. He’s a photographer and he was last seen working in Taormina,” Sherlock explained, with a look of such satisfaction on his elfin features that John wanted very much to kiss him. Instead, he smiled encouragingly.

“And I bet there is more, isn’t there, my clever friend?”

The detective’s cheek seemed to pink a little, but it was perhaps just a trick of the light bouncing off the ox-blood velvet of the headrest.

“Well, yes,” he stuttered “He published some of his photos on a publication named The Studio, in the same issue as, you’ll guess it, Frederick William Rolfe aka Baron Corvo.”

John’s amazement this time wasn’t faked in the least.

“And the Mayor Gallery was exhibiting von Gloeden's photos,” he said and Sherlock nodded.

“Naked youths,” the detective murmured, turning his head to look out of the window.

“How young?” his friend asked, softly.

“Not of age, some of them at least,” was the muted reply.

“And Corvo’s?”

“A boy named Cecil Castle, posing as St. Sebastian.”

The temperature in the compartment seemed to have risen considerably and John quickly removed his tweed coat and jacket; he would have loved to roll up his shirt sleeves, but he feared it would give Sherlock the wrong impression.

“Rolfe was fixated with Saints, evidently. Was it an innocent photograph?” the doctor enquired.

“You tell me, John,” the detective replied, with odd bitterness. “You enjoyed that painting Haddon showed us; do you think that was innocent?”

“Most assuredly,” the old man replied. “There’s no other intent in the picture than that of showing a group of friends delighting in the pleasures of sun, water and in their togetherness.”

“And what about the intention of the artist or the eye of the beholder?” Sherlock urged.

“We can only surmise what the artist meant, because even if we asked him, he may lie to us, whether intentionally or not. As for the latter, we can hardly legislate for people’s reactions to things.”

The younger man flinched minutely and removed a speck of dirt from his immaculate grey trousers.

“Well said, my friend; a carefully worded, albeit cold-blooded, riposte.”

John’s agitation swiftly tinged with frustration: he felt as if he’d been pummelled and left for dead only to be told it was nothing but a scratch.

“You are determined to put words in my mouth and emotions in my heart, but that is your decision, not mine, so I shouldn’t be chastised for it.”

 

Sherlock had been macerating in his moods ever since that eventful evening, but he had chosen to show a blank façade and had apparently succeeded.

It maddened him that his friend had not been unduly affected, that he could go on smiling and eating and sleeping with unholy calm and poise. And to compound this ironic twist of fate, his own body was eluding his commands, demanding things it had never desired before. Even the violin couldn’t soothe him, especially since the Bach and the Brahms he had played the night before had been cries for attention so blatant he couldn’t think of them without wincing. Luckily, his obvious begging had not been evident to John, who’d listened distractedly until he’d been too tired to stay and had retired without even bestowing a single touch on his disgruntled friend.

He knew it was illogical to expect what he’d rejected in the first place, but there was no denying what was happening and even less of a chance that it would change.

Not when the mention of the word ‘chastise’ had him in a hot sweat, the pulse in his throat thumping like the beat of exotic drums.

Sherlock daydreamed of being reprimanded for his misdemeanours in a firm way and that made the ache inside his bowels translate to incandescent pleasure.

In order to mask his spiking arousal, he stood up quickly, his legs bumping against John’s, so that the man regarded him with concern.

“I need to stretch my legs,” he mumbled, and dashed out into the corridor, which was thankfully deserted.

“Let’s have a cigarette,” he heard John’s voice say, and he could have shouted at him that he wanted to be left alone, but the truth was he didn’t feel that way, not anymore.

“Alright,” he agreed, and as they smoked quietly, looking out onto the disappearing landscape, he knew his loneliness was as impermanent as those frozen fields, which the arrival of spring would force into a thaw.

 

Oscott college was a vast red-brick gothic structure, placed on top of a tableland commanding a long stretch southwards. The entrance was from the back by a long drive, winding amid shrubberies and gardens to the front, so that the two men were quite unprepared for the sight that awaited them at their journey's end.

Standing with their backs to the entrance, they looked out over the edge of the tableland to a full panoramic, and appalling, view of the slate roofs of Birmingham’s suburb, Erdington.

“Compared to these grounds, it looks like a hastily set up mining camp, built by men concerned only with the temporary, exploiting the earth while its ore lasts,” John observed.

“The impermanence of things,” Sherlock declared, sighing eloquently and eliciting a smile from his friend.

“Pugin designed this building; he was a Catholic convert, too,” the detective went on, seeing that John was entranced by the gabled magnificence of the structure.

“It does seem a most contagious state of things, especially among our kind,” the doctor stated.

“And what kind would that be?” Sherlock hissed.

“Men devoted to other men,” John replied, calmly.

“Not your case then: you had a wife.”

“While I have to admit I lost what little religion I had during the War, and that I have felt deep affection for a woman, it doesn’t make the devotion to my own sex any less sincere.”

“Generalisations diminish the person who utters them and dilute the potency of the underlying statement,” the younger man declaimed.

“What?” the doctor countered, with increasing irritation. The last thing he needed was a sermon from the very person who had spurned his attentions, treating them as a physical experiment.

“Interesting point of view,” a mellifluous, lilting voice said. The comment had come from a be-cassocked Irish man of John’s age or thereabouts, slim, slight and with a malicious twinkle in his large brown eyes. “I suspect you would make a sublime preacher, but not much of a pastor of souls.”

“Bishop Moriarty,” Sherlock smirked, extending his hand, which the man clasped within both of his.

“John Watson,” the doctor intervened, arching his eyebrows eloquently.

The Bishop smiled like he didn’t mean it and guided them towards the Museum, where they were shown a number of magnificent fifteenth and sixteenth century vestments, ornamented and embroidered with golden thread and with panels showing the passions and passings of the Saints.

“There seems to be an almost morbid obsession with torture and violent death,” John said, indicating a cassock on which the nine-year-old Saint Hugh was depicted as he died by crucifixion.

“Sainthood can only be achieved through some admirable feat of endurance,” the man said, still smiling in a way that could only be called reptilian.

“Not so much endurance considering they died of it,” John muttered, but Moriarty was already guiding them toward an alcove outside the entrance of the College Library.

They sat around a spartan wooden table that contrasted with the lavishness of their surroundings.

“Frederick Rolfe’s permanence in the College was sponsored by the then Bishop of Shrewsbury, that’s rather coincidental, isn’t it? Rolfe was part of the class of the “Divines”, those prepared for ordination, but he was a bitter disappointment to my predecessor, so much so that at some point, The Bishop refused to pay for his upkeep.”

“Why do you think that was?” Sherlock asked.

Moriarty stared at him in a wide-eyed, and John thought not very pious, way.

“I would say that he was more interested in the trappings of religion that in its vocative mission.”

“Which is?” Sherlock enquired.

“Why, Mr Holmes, isn’t it obvious? The rescuing of souls from the flames of hell!” he exclaimed.

“What do you mean by ‘the trappings of religion?” the doctor asked.

“He loved painting; I will show you his lodging in a minute; it’s been preserved as he decorated it. And he had a very approximate relation with the truth, which he treated like a mistress, only making use of it when it served his purposes. He told us he was an Oxford man, but he’d never actually been there to study. He wrote atrocious verses, always about his favourite boy-saints.”

“Nothing that you said would necessarily design him as unsuited to priest-hood,” Sherlock noted.

Moriarty uttered a little, malevolent laugh.

“While some of us may admire the virtues of martyred youths, we do not dedicate our entire life to their worship,” he declared, with an overstated shudder that - to John - suggested the exact contrary.

“I understand you were not friendly with him,” the doctor said.

“I wasn’t one of the lucky few who were admitted to ‘Divine’, so I did not know him as closely as some.”

I bet you didn’t like that one bit, thought John.

“Despite this, he was sent down while you have ascended the ranks to your present glory,” he said, to see the man’s reaction.

“Indeed, Dr Watson; it’s not only who you are but what you make of it,” he stated, fully pleased with himself.

Sherlock had been quiet for a while, lost in what seemed rather unpleasant reveries.

When he spoke, his voice sounded small and faraway,

“From what you’re saying, it appears he was industrious and full of talents yet his life didn’t amount to anything.”

“Just so,” Moriarty concurred, his razor-blade smile resplendent on his sallow face.

“Didn’t he have friends then; people who liked him and his foibles?” John queried, through gritted teeth. He felt as if he were still in the trenches, ready to defend his men to the death.

“I vaguely recall a couple of ill-favoured brothers: the O’Sullivans, I think their name was. One of them was not altogether ungainly, but he had the most horrible voice.”

“Cardinal Van Kristen,” Sherlock said and John understood he was talking about a character in Rolfe’s Hadrian the Seventh, which the doctor had only just started reading. The Cardinal was described as ‘the most exquisitely beautiful boy, body and soul, that I ever met, but with a horrible voice’. Aside from the last part of the description, John had been reminded of his friend, and that had caused him a pang of sadness.

“They went for a tour of the Cathedral cities once; we all thought it very improper, if you see what I mean,” Moriarty added, prompting John’s disbelief. Not for a single paltry second would he believe that the Irish man had any such qualms.

“We’d love to see Rolfe’s room,” Sherlock said firmly.

His countenance was placid and unaffected again, a fact which seemed to displease the Bishop.

“I hope you have a taste for oddities, Dr Watson,” he quipped, looking pointedly at the detective.

“As long as they are loyal and sincere,” the doctor answered.

“Ah, that’s the ultimate challenge: loyalty!”

The room was indeed an extraordinary spectacle: three quarters of it were covered by a remarkable picture of the burial of St. William of Norwich in n which the corpse was carried by at least fifty bearers in varied vestments.

“They all resemble like Rolfe,” the detective marvelled.

“He was vain that way,” Moriarty concurred, before adding; “his unhealthy obsession with this boy-saint took quite a turn for the worse after he was sent down, or so I heard.”

“Are you alluding to his photographs?”

“Youths asked to pose without garments on; that’s scandalous, I hope you’ll agree,” the Bishop declared, clucking his tongue in mock-disapproval.

How such a malignant man could have made its way up to the highest echelons of the Church was a mystery to John, but perhaps it was exactly what was demanded of its acolytes. In any case, he didn’t trust the man and he felt the strong impulse of taking Sherlock as far away from him as he possibly could.

“He was no longer part of the Church by then and I assume he asked permission, since some of his works were published,” he said.

“You’d think so,” Moriarty replied, vaguely.

“What are you hinting at?”

“My dear Doctor, I never hint, that would be against the diktats of my habit; I’m merely suggesting consent is sometimes implied when it should be explicitly declared.”

He enunciated the words clearly, staring Sherlock in the eye; the young man seemed entranced, unable to react by either word or deed.

“We don’t want to keep you from your duties, your Excellency; you must be a very busy man,” John hastened to say, placing a protecting hand on his friend’s back and gently pushing him towards the door.

At the touch, Sherlock juddered, as if electrified. The Irish prelate saw and reacted with the fervour of the collector who has found a priceless rarity of whom he dares not speak to a soul; he licked his lips and his eyes shone; he’d stored the information, Sherlock pondered with dismay and a measure of admiration.

 

“What a nest of vipers! Far from me to be siding with Rolfe, but I am glad he was rejected by this lot; if they are all of a kind, it’s not a very edifying crowd,” John told a very subdued Sherlock.

“I doubt this is the case, John. Moriarty was still bitter about being left out of the ‘Divines’ class and probably of not having been befriended by the O’Sullivans, especially the good-looking one with the awful voice,” the detective joked, and the doctor was glad some of his friend’s asperity was back.

“Are we still looking for Rolfe’s manuscript or has this search turned into something altogether different, my friend?”

The question had been uttered softly and John had been extremely close to saying darling rather than friend; he had to be more careful, he thought.

They had repaired inside the local public house, seeking warmth and a bite to eat.

The detective crumbled a piece of bread between two fingers, his lunch consisting mostly on stealing the occasional forkful of fish-pie from John’s plate.

“I told you that I felt Maundy Gregory was hiding something from me; I’m increasingly convinced he meant us to unveil the mystery of Rolfe on his behalf. Think of us as restorers, John, polishing up the fresco, making its colours shine in all their rightful glory.”

“I don’t trust Moriarty one jot; I doubt what he told us contained one single grain of truth. He may have even pushed his predecessor off a cliff to take his place; I wouldn’t put it past him.”

Sherlock laughed merrily for the first time that day and John took advantage of his mirth by loading his fork with more pie.

“Don’t think I’m not aware of what you are doing,” the young man said, winking and smiling around a mouthful of fish.

“I’d never dream of it,” the blond man replied, his heart overflowing with love. “What next for Rolfe’s restorers then?”

“Vincent O’Sullivan is a known poet; he published some of his works on The Studio; he may be able to scrub a portion of the fresco for us. Unfortunately for you, John, he’s not the lovely one with the awful voice.”

“I’m glad of it, since a deep, lovely voice is as important as a pretty face.”

An embarrassing silence followed, during which both men seemed preoccupied with their food and drink, but were in fact eyeing one another, with tentative, cat-like glances.

Days were still short and when they emerged in the bitterly cold air, the sun had already set in the starless sky.

“You were about to say something before, when you said my friend; you stopped just before uttering the word; why is that?” Sherlock asked, as they walked in the earthy darkness.

Damn, John thought, but decided he would tell the truth and to hell with caution.

“I was about to call you my darling.”

Sherlock stopped dead and indicated something scuttling, in the distance.

“Look John, it’s a fox. I had not seen one in years, not so proudly free and unafraid; no one here to catch her, only a splendid, lonely wilderness.”

“She’s come out to search for food; maybe she’s not as alone as you think, my friend.”

“Darling,” the young man murmured, “you can call me that, if you want. I’d like that.”

“My darling,” John said, searching blindly for Sherlock’s hand and finding it ready to be held, squeezed and never let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thanks for reading.  
> Like all writers, I cannot write in a vacuum, so please if you are enjoying what I do, take time to kudos and comment. There's little sense in going on with a WIP if people are not enjoying it.  
> Thanks again!


	8. A Little Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sexy times of the mild sub/dom sort (very mild)  
> Mind the tags
> 
> That and The Ghost Club (of which Dickens and Conan Doyle were also members)

_“And Jonathan told him, and said,_

_I did but taste a little honey with the end of the rod that was in mine hand, and, lo,_

_I must die”_

Samuel, 14.43, KJV

 

* * *

 

 This time they weren’t as fortunate: the train was crowded and the compartment Sherlock had booked was already occupied by two florid men in full businessman regalia complete with bowler hat.

They glared at Sherlock and his eccentric attire, but immediately went back to reading their papers as soon as they met John’s uncompromising stare.

In normal circumstances or with another sort of companion, the doctor would have conversed about the weather or other trivialities, but he knew better than subjecting the detective to what he would have deemed as absolute torture.

Luckily, he had taken Rolfe's novel with him, so he spent the journey thus occupied, while Sherlock sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed to a point behind the window; he didn’t say a word nor smoke a cigarette.

When they reached London, the two businessmen descended in great pomp, their heads held high as if they’d been balancing a fragile object atop their hats.

“I could never fathom how these people live,” Sherlock observed, as they emerged onto the platform. His tall frame unwound like a graceful spring and he expanded almost literally, like one who had been stifling and was again allowed to breathe.

“Shall we walk home?” John asked; they were not far from Baker Street and his leg had been behaving ever since he’d moved in with his friend.

“Of course,” the younger man agreed, with a pleased smile.

“I could never exist anywhere else but here,” he observed, inhaling the impure air in deep lungfuls.

“Yes, I can see that.”

They walked quietly for a little while, but John sensed his friend was on the verge of asking him an uncomfortable question; he waited, letting him bide his time.

“You said something between you and your friend didn’t work as it should have; what did you mean?” the detective said, with feigned aplomb.

John had expected something of the sort, but was unsure whether that was the right moment for a reply.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sherlock hastened to add, aware of his friend’s indecision.

“I want to and eventually I will, but perhaps not this very moment; it's not a matter that’s easily explained. It may lead you to draw some unfortunate conclusions; unfortunate for me, that is.”

“Unless the reason is criminally dull or actually… criminal, I would never hold it against you.”

“You might,” John replied.

They did not speak another word until they reached their destination; upstairs, Sherlock removed his cape and silk scarf and, still in silence, strode toward his rooms.

“I’ll prepare tea; if you feel up to facing another long evening with me,” John announced; it was a blatantly pacifying gesture, but the blond man felt like he was navigating the seas without a compass.

“Later, perhaps; I need to do some thinking, on my own.”

Sherlock’s cold tone cut him, but there was little he could do about it; he would make tea and read more of Rolfe’s book, hoping it would bring him additional insight into the character of that unusual man.

It was clear that, at times, his friend identified with the disgraced Baron, with his eccentricities, his extreme solitude and his miseries; but to John the differences between the two were plentiful: Sherlock had found his calling while Corvo had dabbled his entire life; while the detective was impervious to sentiment, John suspected it was a pose that he had assumed out of fear and pride; Rolfe, on the other hand, had chosen to be a recluse mostly out of his passion for the unattainable. In addition to that, the unwholesome religiousness of the Baron appeared to be a cover to disguise all manner of obsessive compulsions, while Sherlock did not believe in anything he couldn’t dissect with the pointed blade of his considerable intellect.

 

Sherlock’s encounter with the painting of the Saint William of Norwich had provoked in him a troubling sensation of déjà vu. The way the little corpse had been carried, so frail and pale in his nakedness had induced a twinge of recognition that he could not place. He’d never been to a funeral, not as far as he could remember, nor had he ever been witness to such a sad spectacle as the passing of a young boy.

And what passing: the poor boy had been gagged, tortured and brutally murdered.

Nothing as aesthetically pleasing as the death of St. Sebastian, tied to a post and shot with arrows; and Corvo had re-enacted this famous event with the help of Cecil Castle. Perhaps, they should seek the boy out and interrogate him on his relations with the Baron; see whether they could unveil another patch of the fresco; they: he and John, the man who treated him to endearments but chose to keep secrets from him; secrets like that boy being lovingly transported to the site of his burial; holy, consecrated ground; unlike Thorpe Wood, the place where his body had been found the day before Easter.Why would this bother him so, he couldn’t fathom, especially since he’d not been in the least concerned when he’d first read about the story of the Saint.

He couldn’t think, he couldn’t even see past the muddle clouding his thoughts.

The past, always the past: even his youth - of which John had been envious – couldn’t shield Sherlock from the intrusion of the dead and the gone.

John’s friend David, his youth had been taken from him; like the Saints, he’d faced his own martyrdom, and with him was buried a part of John he could never know.

And those boys in the painting, the uncaring youths he’d admired were perhaps a symbol of that lost innocence, which he saw and attracted him to Sherlock.

“I am not what he thinks I am,” he whispered, and wasn’t it always the crux of his problem: his parents wanting to mould him into a different creature, more pliant, less inward-looking; his brother regarding him with pity, asking him to smooth his edges, to change his spots, that feat always out of the reach of the poor leopard.

And that whiteness he’d always thought belonged to him was irrevocably stained with lurid fancies, that surely John would regard with distaste or at the very least with compassion.

“I won’t allow it,” he hissed, divesting himself of his garments and covering his body with the heavy brocade coverlet whose tassels danced at his every movement, similar to those which modern girls wore on their ‘flapper’ dresses. Maybe Mary Watson had worn them too; maybe she and John had danced together, in a tight embrace.

“Damnation,” he cried out, loud enough to be heard from the sitting room.

And sure enough, a moment later his companion was outside his door.

“Is anything the matter? I heard you scream,” he said.

“Don’t be alarmed, my friend; it was merely an expression of my frustration with regards to the case,” the detective lied.

“If you come and have some tea, we could discuss it together.”

Sherlock opened the door in a fit of impulsivity, forgetting his outlandish costume.

“What are you wearing?” John grinned.

“Jest all you like, but this is the way I am, like it or not.”

“I never said I disliked it; in fact, the tassels have something Napoleonic about them; French, if you get my drift.”

Sherlock snorted, pretending he was not enjoying himself enormously.

“Your drift, John, is common place and staid. I will not tolerate being made the butt of a bawdy joke that you may tell your friends in the public house.”

“Come by the fireside, lest your catch your death of cold. And, please take that fringed monstrosity with you, so that I can admire it more closely,” the older man quipped.

Thus the detective followed his friend, curly hair tousled and throat bare, like a magnificent Roman slave swaddled in William Morris-style upholstery.

“My curiosity is piqued: where and why did you purchase this _thing_?” John enquired, his lips trembling with concealed laughter.

“It was part of the evidence of a case I solved; the body was enclosed in it.”

“The body... what, and you, how did he die?” the doctor stuttered.

“She, John. A young woman who had cheated on her husband; he was being acquitted as the corpse could not be found. He’d strangled her, wrapped her in this blanket and hidden it with the other rolls of fabric in his shop; he was a dressmaker.”

“And you sleep underneath it?”

“I had it cleaned, obviously, and fashioned it into a coverlet.”

John’s expression was teetering between horror and amusement, but seeing the detective’s puzzled expression, the latter won.

“You are steeped in grisly deeds, my darling,” he declared, in between fits of laughter.

“I’m not what you think I am,” the detective replied, haughtily.

“And what do I think you are?”

“Innocent, ready for the plucking,” Sherlock answered, enunciating with prim precision.

He saw John swallow; his eyes went dark and he licked his lips.

“Tell me what you are instead,” he croaked, moving a step closer to his friend.

“Filled with fancies, choked by them,” was the hoarse reply.

“What fancies?”

The blond man took another step closer.

“I’m not sure I should tell…” the younger man tried to say, but was silenced by a thumb pressing hard along his lower lip.

“May I kiss you, please? A proper kiss,” John asked in a ragged tone; he was staring so hard at his friend’s lips that Sherlock felt them part as if of their own volition.

In the next instant, his mouth was being possessed by John’s and every fear in his mind that it would be slow and chaste was erased by the near-violence of it.

There was a hand in his curls, massaging and pulling, while the other was rubbing down his naked chest, from throat to groin. But the kiss itself was tongue and teeth, and all his moans and cries were being pressed down his throat; it was relentless domination which demanded, begged, to have even more of his submission, more of his flesh and blood until he became nothing but flames and ashes.

“Is this what you need?” John panted, his mouth red and wet, inches from Sherlock’s throat.

“Choked by them,” he repeated, hoping that his friend would understand what he meant; he was paralysed with desire, and he couldn’t couch it in actual words.

John was desperate too: his gaze roamed up and down the detective’s lithe form, seeking the answer that would grant him entry.

It was eternity or merely a heartbeat before John grasped him by the shoulders and pushed him down on his knees; yes, he exulted, that was it.

“Let me help you,” he heard John say. There was a flurry of movement and then the juicy head of a thick, heavy member was nudging the side of his face in a lewd caress.

“Are you certain?” was the ragged question, that sounded more like a prayer.

“Yes, please, please,” Sherlock said, begging with his words and eyes.

An almost inhuman growl surged from his friend’s insides as he held Sherlock’s head with his hands and guided it towards its goal.

The first taste of it nearly undid him: it was salty and bitter, it was heaven. He suckled the head and lapped at the slit and he wanted to lose himself, but there was something missing. He moaned and writhed, and shook his curls and John read his unspoken plea; he pulled a fistful of hair and, with that motion, slid inside the young man’s mouth, filling it to suffocation. For a moment, Sherlock was incapable of thought or motion; his eyes were smarting and saliva was trickling down his chin, he noticed with detachment. Then, like a river of fire, the blood sung in his ears and he moved closer to that blinding sun.

John was thrusting deeper and faster, until Sherlock’s throat contracted and his lungs threatened to burst; he heard a cry, distant, and felt the warm ropes of seed flood his insides; it was red-hot and indigo and black; blissful, peaceful nothingness.

“My darling, dear, dear boy,” his friend was saying.

Sherlock looked up to find stormy blue eyes beaming at him and a hand caressing his face, delicately.

“You lost consciousness for a while; you frightened me,” John whispered.

They were sprawled on the rug and Sherlock’s head was on his friend’s lap.

“It was exceptional,” the younger man tried to say, but his throat hurt and his voice was ragged.

“You are exceptional, and astounding and magnificent. You were, I,” John muttered, “I will never forget tonight, no matter what happens in the future.”

“Nor will I,” the detective croaked.

As he regained his bearings, he felt a suspicious wetness on the lower part of his torso and between his legs, and he winced.

“If you hadn’t fainted, I would have taken care of you. But even so, it’s not too late to do this.”

And as Sherlock looked on, still in a daze, the blond man carefully laid him down and placing wet kisses along the length of his body, he licked and sipped away the evidence of his lover’s pleasure. Sherlock wailed, his cheeks aflame

“You didn’t have to,” he panted.

“I wanted to; I will always want to.”

Then John covered him with the contentious blanket and let him rest, never stopping his caresses.

Sherlock was wading in honey and it would have been easy too drift off to sleep, but there was a nagging question that wanted answering; and then light dawned on him, in a satisfactory revelation.

“It was this, wasn’t it, what didn’t work between you and your friend? He did not enjoy… a firm hand?” he questioned, fixing his eyes on John’s.

“We were the same in that respect and at first it didn’t matter. It still wouldn’t have broken us up, if he hadn’t looked elsewhere to satisfy his needs; that I could not accept.”

Sherlock shuddered.

“I hope you know that I would never; neither one nor the other,” he explained, cryptically.

“And I hope you know I would never hurt you,” the doctor replied, brushing a thumb across Sherlock’s swollen lips.

“You won’t shame me for wanting this.”

“I won’t cease thanking the gods that you exist and that you are what you are.”

A feeling of wonderment enveloped them both: a bond had been created that could not be torn asunder.

 

The morning after was a study in disguised tenderness: Sherlock pretended not to notice John’s constant proximity, while the doctor swallowed smile after smile as he noted his friend’s languor and the unholy mess of his curls.

“I trust you slept well,” the blond man said, cheerfully drizzling honey atop a charred slice of toast.

“Like the dead; and you seem awfully jolly this morning,” the detective replied, mid-yawn.

“I’ve never felt this rested since before the War.”

“Glad to contribute to the peace of your senses.”

“Peace, yes, for sure, but hardly of the senses; rather the opposite, in fact,” John replied, handing Sherlock the honeyed bread and caressing his wrist, as if perchance.

“You appreciated the blanket then.”

John laughed and poured his friend a cup of coffee.

“I have to admit that it does confer on you a sort of louche allure.”

“Using French to distract me from your morbid tendencies,” the detective chided, shaking his tangled mane.

He was flirting, John realised, and the thought filled him with joy.

“Right you are, Mr Holmes; I should not waylay you in such a cheap manner.”

“How charitable of you, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock quipped, with a bright smile that lit his changeable eyes.

The conversation was on its merry way to a more intimate dalliance, when a sound of footstep was heard outside their front door, and next a knock.

Mrs Hudson stood on the threshold with a small, flustered man in a black suit and a clerical collar. Another priest, John sighed inwardly.

“My dear Doctor Watson, this gentleman here wants to see you and Sherlock regarding a matter of ghosts,” the elderly woman explained, with evident glee.

“Not ghosts, my dear lady, The Ghost Club,” the priest countered, giving her a watery smile.

“Please come in, Mr?”

“Father William Lockhart of St. Etheldreda’s, Ely Place.”

Thankfully Sherlock had retired to his room to tidy up his appearance and when he returned, he was impeccably dressed in a grey cashmere suit and black velvet slippers.

After the introductions and the offer of tea, which was politely rejected, they sat Fr. Lockhart down on their best armchair and waited for him to narrate the reason of his visit.

“I preside over my parish and provide some help to young Catholic men who need a place to stay when in difficulty; one of them  was Frederick Rolfe. But I’m digressing. Julia told me to come here and invite you to our meeting, which will take place tonight at Pagani’s in Great Portland Street. She’s the medium who had the vision of Rolfe with a hole in his head. She said you need her help,” the priest said, gazing at Sherlock; he had pale blue eyes, devoid of any guile.

“Her help with what precisely?” the detective asked, in the same direct manner.

“With finding the murderer that you are chasing, of course!” Lockhart exclaimed, nodding his head with conviction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys, thanks for reading.  
> Like all writers, I cannot write in a vacuum, so please if you are enjoying what I do, take time to kudos and comment. There's little sense in going on with a WIP if people are not enjoying it.  
> Thanks again!
> 
> Next: The Ghost Club and Sherlock dealing with a non-memory.


	9. The Bare-stript Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys attend The Ghost Club  
> A smidgen of smut at the beginning, so mind your tags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The Ghost Club congregated at (among other places) Pagani's Restaurant and the people I mentioned were really members of the club. The episode with Julia (whose surname I have invented) and Rolfe is a real one.

_“(He) gently turn’d over upon me, / And parted the shirt from_

_my bosom-bone, and plunged (his) tongue to my bare-stript heart”_

_Leaves of Grass (excerpt) – Walt Whitman_

 

* * *

 

The perplexing assertion of Fr. Lockhart regarding Rolfe had been explained and reduced to one only marginally less absurd.

In addition to his pastoral duties, the priest took an interest in literature and at times collaborated with W.T. Stead, an editor and fellow spiritualist. Since Rolfe had been desperate to publish his stories and make a living out of them, Lockhart had recommended him to Stead. Unfortunately, the man wasn’t convinced and subjected the Baron to an experiment: he asked him for an object in his possession and when he’d obtained it, he’d gone into another room where his favourite medium Julia was going to handle it and ‘see’ things about its owner. Allegedly, she had 'seen' that Corvo wasn’t to be trusted and that he had a hole in his head.

Immediately, Stead had seized Rolfe and felt his cranium where, sure enough, he’d found the incriminated hole. All collaboration between them had immediately ceased, but years later, upon Rolfe’s death, the medium – who had retained the object belonging to Corvo – had been subjected to another of her visions, which consisted in an unidentified man whose heart was being devoured by guilt and thwarted yearning.

Those were the exact words that came out of the priest’s mouth, and they had sounded odd and unusual coming from such a source.

“There is much strangeness in this case, my friend. I’d never imagined these pious men would dabble with practices such as spiritualism and mesmerism; I would have sworn they’d be at odds with their religious faith,” John said.

Sherlock smiled crookedly.

“My dear John, this Ghost Club the Father mentioned was a creation of the Archbishop of Canterbury, no less. The human mind cannot suppress its immense appetite for knowledge and for other _things_.”

John took one look at the enticing sweep of his friend’s elegant throat and couldn’t help but concur: his own hunger for that pristine body and the person within it only seemed to increase with time; the more he obtained, the more he craved.

“You are allowed to, you know,” the detective murmured, undoing the top button of his silk shirt.

He didn’t need to be told twice; in fact, he had not realised he’d already put his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and started to kiss the underside of the man’s jaw, until he heard the pretty moans that came from those sweet lips. He took good care not to leave visible marks and bit his way down to the hollow of his friend’s throat and up again, licking the shell of one ear, and toying with the earlobe. That brief contact was sufficient to start a considerable fire and, without quite knowing how, he found himself sprawled on his armchair with Sherlock on his lap: he’d unbuttoned the boy’s shirt and was working his rosy nipples with voracious intent. Above him, the younger man was calling John’s name among broken sobs.

It was delicious torture, Sherlock thought. First, John had used the tip of his tongue to tease him then he’d moistened the nub until it strained and hardened, but had refused to bite or pinch it. The detective had pushed up into the heat, but without success. He called out John’s name and begged; he’d have humiliated himself, but that wasn’t what his friend wanted. No, he was only waiting for Sherlock to be ready; and when he deemed that he was, there were lewd kisses with tongue and teeth and then sucks so vigorous the detective thought he might levitate from the pleasure they elicited. There were more bites then, vicious and intense; his skin became sore and he couldn’t take it any longer. It was almost too much, but then there came tender licks and warm air blown upon his aching flesh. When he opened his eyes, John was looking at him, bright-eyed, sucking his fingers in awe. Only then Sherlock had been aware that he’d spent in his friend’s fist.

 

As he was waking around town in search of employment, John couldn’t quell the smile that tugged at his lips; finally, after years of denying himself, of suppressing his needs, he had found the man he could share them with. And what a man: a beautiful genius with the skin of a white rose and the eyes of a changeling.

He was prepared to settle for friendship with a dash of carnal pleasures, because he was so full of love for Sherlock that he would take anything on offer, regardless of the pain he may have to undergo. He was walking past Smithfield market, when he heard a man's voice address him.

“John? John Watson, is that you?”

When he turned, he saw a stout gentleman dressed in crumpled Harris Tweed walking quickly toward him.

“Stamford? What are you doing here? I thought you were in Edinburgh!”

The two men shook hands and clapped each other on the back for good measure.

“My mother-in-law has been unwell, so we had to move back to the Smoke. I’ve heard about Mary; I’m sorry I couldn’t come to the funeral.”

“It all came upon us so quickly, there wasn’t time to inform all of our friends. Besides, what with your family and in-laws your hands are more than full. How many kids do you have now?”

Mike laughed good-heartedly.

“Still just the two: Susan and Peter. They are a handful, but the missus has everything under control. She rules us all with her iron fist.”

“You don’t need much ruling, old chap. Meek as lamb, that’s what you are.”

They grinned at each other and the memory of his past profession made John feel even prouder of his new situation.

“Have you got time for a drink?” he asked his old friend.

“Tea would be nice. I know a place nearby.”

The walked past St. Bartholomew-the-Less and entered a tea room opposite the hospital.

“What are you doing in London?” Mike enquired, as he lavishly buttered his scone. John chuckled, as he imagined Sherlock’s expression if he’d been present: the wrinkle between his eyebrows, the curl of his upper lip.

“I have started working with a detective; to be precise, he's a consulting detective,” he replied, smiling.

“Not Sherlock Holmes, by any chance?”

John nearly fell off his seat.

“How can you possibly know?”

“I work at Barts now and Holmes' name has been notorious ever since that time he turned up demanding we let him beat up a corpse with a riding crop.”

“What? Why?”

“He said it was a post-mortem investigation into the nature of human bruising.”

John laughed.

“Camberwell pond water,” he exclaimed.

“What?”

“Nothing; it’s just something he said to me about his scientific methods. Say, did you happen to talk to him?”

“Oh yes, but he mostly ignored my attempts at conversation and asked whether he could cut off some poor sod’s fingers and take them home with him. He almost convinced me, that much I have to grant him. And you say you work with him now?”

“I live with him, too. No, don’t look at me that way. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement: I make sure he doesn’t get into serious trouble and he gives me an occupation and a room to kip in.”

Mike clucked his tongue and shook his head.

“I know you only too well, John Watson. That young man is just your sort and I don’t blame you for seeking a little happiness after all the bad luck you’ve had.”

John wanted to deny the implication of his friend’s words, but found that he couldn’t, so he said nothing.

“You don’t want to be a doctor anymore then?”

“It’s more that London’s hospitals don’t want me working for them; I have been knocking at many doors and haven’t found a single one willing to give me the time of day.”

Stamford put his cup down with decision and wiped his lips with the immaculate napkin.

“This is utter nonsense. I know the Royal Dispensary was looking for a physician for three days a week, starting a month from now. Would that suit?”

“That would be absolutely perfect, dear chap,” John replied, beaming at his dear friend.

“Well then, time to make those decrepit caryatids of the Committee see sense,” Mike stated, devouring the last bit of his scone.

“Fighting words, my friend, and uttered with such panache,” John agreed, grinning.

“Oh bother! A man needs to eat if he wants to keep body and soul together.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” John replied, taking a victorious bite off his fruit bun.

 

John was admiring the restaurant’s art nouveau façade when he heard Sherlock’s loud, indelicate snort.

“I’m afraid I can’t share your enthusiasm for this horror. I suppose the style is acceptable, but the use of ceramic tiling reminds one of a public lavatory,” the detective observed, curling his nose up in distaste.

“And how would you know, pray tell,” the doctor asked, smiling.

“A case,” his friend replied, curtly.

He’d been churlish all day, ever since John had told him about his encounter with Mike and the job offer that had resulted from it. He’d only relented when he’d been told the contract would only start in a month's time. Luckily, he did not entirely dislike Stamford, which was a blessing since John planned to see more of his old friend.

He suspected Sherlock was planning on using this newfound connection with Barts by demanding more gruesome human samples; he must really be in love, since that didn’t cause much of a reaction aside from amusement and pride.

They strode past the main salon, with its brown walls and mirrors with painted trellis work, and ascended the stairs to the place that was called the artists room.

That was in a completely different style: almost entire upholstered in crimson velvet, its walls were soundproofed and covered with portraits of musicians and other famous people who had been there; among them, Sherlock recognised Delius and Rachmaninov.

When they entered, there was already a crowd of people waiting for them; a tall woman, with a beaky nose and short flame-red hair worn in tight waves, came to greet them.

“Julia Redfern,” she said in a deep, contralto voice. Her piercing grey eyes, round like buttons, seemed to skewer her interlocutors and contained no amount of human warmth.

The men introduced themselves and she launched into a tirade about ‘our delightfully spiritual poets that unfortunately cannot be with us today’ which turned out to be a certain Robert Desnos and the more famous Yeats. John was duly impressed, but Sherlock seemed to be looking intently at a middle aged man with a receding hairline and a large pair of rimless spectacles.

“That’s Mr Bligh Bond, isn’t it?” he enquired.

“Yes, but I promise you tonight won’t be devoted to his Glastonbury psychic investigations, but to our little problem. I have spoken to Mary – that’s Ms Overgaard – and she agrees I should hold your hand during the séance.”

“Séance?” John exclaimed.

“Yes, my dear. We had thought of automatic writing, but it doesn’t seem appropriate with you being novices and possibly interrupting the psychic flow. Excuse me for a moment; I need a word with dear Arthur,” she said, and glided toward a grey-haired man with a drooping moustache.

“I’m not happy about this, just so we are clear,” the blond man declared. “All this mumbo-jumbo and that bird-like woman holding your hand,” he continued, shaking his head.

Sherlock gave him one of his lovely asymmetrical smiles.

“You’ll be there too, John, holding my other hand and keeping an eye on the proceedings.”

“Not even Lucifer himself would drag me away,” the doctor concurred, placing a protective hand on Sherlock’s lower back.

Ms Redfern came back with a raven-haired lady which turned out to be Ms Ovcergaard, who spoke with a clipped Dutch accent that made her sound like a character in a gothic story; there was a flurry of introductions then they all sat at the round polished mahogany table with a three-arm candelabrum at its centre. All the other lights had been extinguished, so they were bathed in flickering shadows.

“Before we commence, my friends, let me elucidate the conditions of tonight’s meeting. It was brought to my attention that Mr Sherlock Holmes has been hired to investigate a certain Mr Frederick Rolfe; years ago I was asked to give my opinion on the man and, touching a pocket handkerchief of his, I saw that his nature was not as pure as he claimed and that there was a hole in his cranium. Now the poor man is dead and, since I have known of Mr Holmes’ mission, I have retrieved that object and felt the unmistakable torments we mediums have when faced with murderous intent gone unpunished. We are here hoping that Mr Rolfe’s spirit will oblige us with his presence and guide us toward the light. Let’s join hands and close our eyes, allowing the energy to flow like a river of knowledge.”

John felt the detective tremble with silent laughter and squeezed his fingers to assure him of his complicity.

 

Sherlock did not believe in anything he couldn’t prove scientifically, but he couldn’t deny what he’d felt at Oscott, in Rolfe’s room.

Something old and forgotten had stirred inside of him and he wished to discover what it was; at the same time he feared it, and this contradiction enraged him because of its illogical nature.

He felt the woman’s cold, nervy fingers dig into his skin like claws and sensed the strange current that went through her, like electricity.

After a while, she started to mumble incomprehensible words then she straightened up and stilled, and her fingers almost relinquished their grasp.

“Yes, my departed friend, please tell me,” she pleaded.

“I see a house in the countryside, Sussex, and a boy, emerging from the water and lying down in the sand; sadness and hurt, tears, and blows, threw, four, ten blows; the boy is screaming, louder and louder, and the words, yes, the words: I bowed beneath thee, I worshipped thee. The boy’s eyes are filled with tears, they spill on my hands and I knelt down and kissed thy wounds. More blows, twenty, thirty, and blood and tears and more kisses; the boy is gone now, into the water, among the weeds, caressing the boat, a painted boat.”

Suddenly, Julia Redfern stopped and looked down at where Sherlock’s nails had cut deep into her skin, close to drawing blood.

“I’m sorry,” the detective stuttered, before standing up slowly, on his shaking legs.

“John,” he murmured, to which his friend replied by curling a strong arm around the slender waist, half-holding him up.

“I apologise for the interruption, but Mr Holmes is unwell; nothing serious, I hope, but he may have overtaxed his health, of late.”

There was a murmur of understanding then the Dutch lady bowed in their direction and smiled, as if to grant them permission.

Luckily, the restaurant had a couple of cars always waiting outside, so they reached home within a handful of minutes.

Once warmed up by the fire and by a large dose of whisky, John finally posed the question he’d been burning to ask.

“What happened, my darling; was there something in her words?”

Sherlock shuddered and shook his head, but his hand sought John’s and held on to it for dear life.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I did not see the things she mentioned nor did I remember them, but there was a sensation deep inside me, like a fire, that rose and rose until it was at my throat and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t stop it, I couldn’t…”

His voice was shrill and his tone akin to hysteria, so the doctor gathered his trembling body into the safe confine of his arms.

“I rather think you should go to bed and sleep,” he whispered against the soft skin behind his lover’s ear.

“Come with me?” the detective asked, softly.

“And stay, you mean?”

“Yes, please, stay,” was the breathless reply.

John could not resist placing a feather-light kiss on Sherlock’s lips and the abandon with which it was received nearly scuppered his plans.

“You are dangerous, you know?” he said, between caresses.

“I dearly hope so,” the younger man replied, parting his lips in invitation.

“To bed now, you tempter,” John intimated and Sherlock pretended to roll his eyes, but - in truth - rejoiced at the command.

 

“What do you prefer?”

Sherlock was about to reply that he’d never lain in bed with another person, but that wouldn’t have made a difference as he knew perfectly well what he wanted.

“Hold me from behind, as tight as you can,” he said, feeling John’s nightshirt-clad body press against his back.

“Pressure won’t be a hindrance then?” John murmured, his nose buried into fragrant curls.

“Quite the contrary,” the detective sighed, melting into the strong embrace.

“Stamford is not a bad sort; in fact he’s quite tolerable, considering,” he added. He felt his friend’s grin brushing his nape.

“Considering what?”

“That he’s married to a woman and leads a very dull life.”

“You are describing yours truly not so long ago,” John observed.

“But you wanted more and now you’ve found it.”

“Modesty is not your chief quality.”

“Modesty is nothing but vanity in cheap clothing.”

The doctor laughed and squeezed just a little bit tighter.

“Whatever it is that you saw or remembered, you are not facing it alone,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, and before he could utter the loving words he had been suppressing for days, he closed his eyes and fell into a deep, comforting sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your nice, supportive comments. I know the story is a slow burn and the language is at times challenging, but I'm glad you appreciate my efforts. 
> 
> Next: Morning sex, the Sherlock way. Luckily John understands him even without words.


	10. A Flash of Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning sex, so mind the tags.
> 
> Also, Sherlock meets a poet and we get another hint of what may be the cause of Rolfe's disgrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, many of the facts and people mentioned are real but the timings/actions have been manipulated a little (or a lot).

_“As dainty a sight as ever I did see!_  
I _n a drifting boat with an hour to spare_  
_On the coast of the land of the kilted knee_  
_Under the sea-cliff's shadows, where_  
_A flash of boys, slender and debonair_  
_Laugh in a lovely disarray_  
_Fear they know not nor never a care_  
_The boys who bathe in Saint Andrew's Bay”_

_Ballade of Boys Bathing (excerpt) by Frederick W Rolfe_

 

* * *

 

John woke up with the morning sun streaming through the lace curtains.

He opened his eyes and his heart threatened to give out: in his sleep, Sherlock had turned around and half-divested himself of his nightshirt; it was completely unbuttoned and partially off his shoulders, revealing the front of his body, which was a delectable stretch of milky skin over lithe muscles, dotted with freckles and sparse, soft hairs. But what caught the doctor’s attention was the bruise around the nipple he’d tormented the day before; the bud was still raised, swollen and red.

He wanted more than anything to lick it, but he didn’t want to wake his lover. It was then that he heard a muted sigh and saw those silvery eyes blink at him for the fraction of an instant, so quick he thought he’d dreamt of it. He had done no such thing though, which meant the disrobing had been intentional and Sherlock was trying to seduce him.

John almost laughed: as if he needed seducing, when he was always on the verge of ravishing him. He refrained from making any sound and planned his course of action: if Sherlock wanted seducing, he would do his utmost to satisfy him.

He let his body take what it wanted: he bent his head and lapped at the sore nub, feeling it rise and harden. The body underneath it trembled a little, but it was clear Sherlock was trying to play dead.

John kept at it, increasing the pressure and alternating the licking with bites and suckles; when he had lulled Sherlock into a predictable rhythm, he pinched the neglected nipple and rolled it viciously between index and thumb.

The young man trembled and cried out.

“John,” he moaned and was rewarded with a kiss on his sleep-puffy lips.

“Let me take care of you, please my darling,” the doctor whispered, kissing down the boy’s throat, eliciting a string of whimpers and sighs.

“What would you like?” he asked, inhaling the wonderful salty scent emanating from Sherlock’s pulse points.

“Burning… inside,” was the hoarse reply.

 _Yes_ , John thought, _yes, anything for you, my love_.

“If it hurts too badly, tell me to stop,” he intimated, and received a shy nod in answer.

There was something John really wanted to do, but he had decided it would need a different sort of scenario, one where Sherlock would be alive with excitement and a little worse for wear, ready to take on the world yet willing to be overwhelmed. He wanted his lover to feel he had everything under control and still be pushed over the edge.

That day would come, but now it was time for a more controlled strategy.

The fire Sherlock wanted could be made to blaze strongly and relentlessly, in a near-cruel way, and John would revel in it, even though, or perhaps because, it meant painful self-restraint on his part, one that would send him crazy with yearning.

For this practice, it was customary to use mineral oil, but that would not be suitable for what his boy needed, so John coated both his hands with saliva and positioned his lover’s body flat on his back; Sherlock immediately splayed his legs, showing his offering in its plentiful magnificence.

John’s mouth watered, but he did not do the thing that was expected. Instead, he forced the boy’s pelvis up and started suckling his perineum. Initially, it was light and sweet then it became a rough massage, tongue and lips pressing onto the most delicate of nerve endings. Above him, Sherlock was writhing minutely, still trying to control his physical reactions; his verbal ones were unrestrained: sobs, shouts and mumbled words were interwoven with deep, throaty growls. John relented for a moment, taking a moment to lap at the boy’s distended, heavy sac when suddenly, he used one hand to grasp the base of Sherlock’s erection and the other to stroke the young man’s entrance; he did that until he felt the furled ring flare a little and it was then that he inserted his entire middle finger in a single, merciless thrust. Part of him worried it may have caused pain, but the other, the prevailing one, gloried in it, as he felt Sherlock shudder and wail in unchecked abandon.

 

Fire: it was inside of him, underneath his skin and even in his sensory memories. He’d woken up at dawn mad with desire, hot and sticky with it; he’d undone his nightshirt and pushed closer to his sleeping lover, hoping his musk would penetrate through the shrouds of sleep. When John had touched him, he’d welcomed his attentions, his insistent caresses and soothing kisses.

He’d never dreamed of that hidden part of himself that was only waiting to be tortured: the spark that would forever ignite his insides. The fierce stab that followed filled him with agony and bliss; he couldn’t tell whether he should move or stay still, whether John would reprimand him; then he understood there was nothing for him to decide: he should only surrender to it and let it burn, relishing the aching and the throbbing of it. The root of his penis was ablaze, his testicles full to overflowing and there was a blade pricking the inside of his bowels: it was agony, it was screaming ecstasy.

He heard his own voice shout and beg; shameless pleadings to be taken, to be had. His lover replied by pumping his finger in and out with ruthless intent before curving it inside of him and jabbing that point that had him arch off the bed and scream until he had no air left in his lungs.

Fire in his veins, melting everything in its wake; _no more_ , he sobbed, _please no more_ , and then, _again, again, don’t ever stop_.

All of his limbs were shaking and drenched in sweat and he could not summon up a single, paltry thought, except for the wish for release, blessed and final, washing all over him like a crashing wave.

 

John stared at his lover and if he had ever seen anything more magnificent he’d certainly forgotten it: sweaty and red-faced, eyes closed shut and crimson lips, Sherlock was enduring the pain-pleasure he was being given in the most delicious way. After what seemed endless stimulation, John was about to grant him his much deserved reprieve.

 _My love, my beautiful love_ , he thought, and wanted so much to give him all the joy and pleasure that he deserved. In one motion, he slid his hand up the boy’s erection, up to his sopped glans, which he then squeezed and stroked with vigour; there was nothing more delightful than masturbating that blood-hot head with its silky foreskin. He inched closer with his mouth, and when the orgasm came, he could almost drink from it like from a fountain.

“So good, oh yes, yes,” the young man keened, as John collapsed on top of him, smearing his lips across Sherlock’s face, murmuring sweet words he couldn’t decipher.

“And you?” the latter panted, feeling the thick arousal press against his stomach.

“Let me?” John asked, and when he felt permission had been given, he frotted and came all over the boy’s chest and throat.

“You gave me my fire,” Sherlock murmured later, as they lay spent in each other’s arms.

“And you took it magnificently,” John replied, caressing the tangled mass of raven hair.

“I was expecting something else; you surprised me.”

“That’s some compliment, coming from you,” the blond man grinned, kissing the side of his lover’s throat.

“I only wish you’d let me partake in your pleasure.”

“You did; the ending was nothing but effect, while the cause was entirely of your making. What you allowed me to do…”

“There’s no allowing, John. I wanted it; needed it,” Sherlock whispered fiercely.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” the doctor replied, hugging his boy even tighter to his chest.

“Yes,” was the reply, which made John burst into laughter.

Sherlock was about to explain that he meant he was the lucky one, but was thoroughly charmed by his friend’s mirth; he grinned and let his mind drift into peaceful slumber.

 

“That Julia woman said Sussex; do you think she meant Sholto’s house?” John asked, later, as they sat sipping their tea and reading the newspapers.

“Hove is hardly the countryside, but I grant you it is an odd coincidence. I may have to ask Lockhart for an account on the people at Pagani’s: perhaps we could find some answers in those quarters. But before that, I’d love to speak to Mr O’Sullivan. He’s a published author; it shouldn’t be too difficult to unearth his current address.”

“I could go see the priest while you search for O’Sullivan's whereabouts. I don’t mind walking up to Holborn; some exercise will do me good.”

“It seems to me you are in excellent shape,” Sherlock said, eyeing his friend from underneath his long lashes and biting his lower lip.

“I did say that you are dangerous, didn’t I?” John quipped, smiling and covering his lover’s hand with his own.

“I was merely stating the truth,” the detective replied, staring at their conjoined hands. A number of thoughts crowded his mind: that John may have finally recovered from his mourning and now that he had also mended his health and found an occupation, he might move on and seek a less inexperienced, more generous partner. He frowned and was about to remove his hand when it was fiercely held in place.

“I can’t guess what sort of ghosts live inside you, my darling, but I still have your taste in my mouth and there it will reside for as long as you’ll allow it.”

Sherlock blinked and cleared his throat, visibly moved.

“I’m, thank you, I, yes,” he stuttered and John put him out of his misery by kissing the top of his head and leaving the sitting room with a pleased smile on his face.

 

In the course of his brief existence, Sherlock had amassed a quantity of volumes and disparate objects, some of which were mementos of his cases, such as the coverlet John had made fun of. He wished to show John his study -  his doctor Jekyll's secret side - but he was still afraid it would appal him: it was chaotic and covered with dust; some of his memorabilia could be considered grim or even distasteful –  the real human skull, for instance – and his scientific paraphernalia would reveal a facet of his personality that John might find unadventurous and dull.

He wasn’t unlike a beautiful woman afraid to be seen without her finery, but he was, of course, quite wrong: he didn’t know that his friend suspected the presence of such a repository and thought of it with tenderness and admiration, hoping that Sherlock would soon confide in him, but in no way willing to force his hand. Others were the situations on which he wished to stamp his authority, but certainly never on those delicate issues that concerned the detective’s confidence or his trust.

The Yellow Book had long ceased publication, but Sherlock found a copy in his well-stocked library. The stories had not always been first-rate, but the quality of the printing and binding was impeccable: Caslon type, Aubrey Beardsley-designed covers on thick, creamy paper. Sherlock stuck his nose inside it and inhaled the well-remembered fragrance; for some reason, it reminded him of smoking opium, a thing he had not done for many years, ever since he had his first case in Paris. He had tried it for research purposes and had been very close to addiction, saved only by the tight control he’d always exercised upon his body and mind. This was another thing he would soon share with John, perhaps teasing him with the vision of his increased submission and abandon. Not that he wanted to dabble in it again, but he had enjoyed drinking sherry with John and he wouldn’t have minded trying that again, perhaps after the conclusion of a case.

He lit a cigarette and examined the volume in his hands: John Lane of The Bodley Head was one of the publishers; address and telephone number were printed overleaf.

After a few failed attempts, he obtained what he needed: 8 Lancaster Gate Terrace in Bayswater was Vincent O’Sullivan’s latest address.

He’d been expecting a wealthy Englishman, but what he found instead was a downtrodden American artist, whose fortunes had clearly dwindled in recent times. A tall, blond man in his late forties, with vivid green eyes, he carried his poverty with grace: his clothes were of good cut and fine quality albeit worn and his basement lodging's squalor was diminished by the number of colourful prints on the damp, peeling walls. The room was scantily furnished with two chairs and a table and the floor was littered with piles of books.

The poet offered Sherlock a cup of strong tea and accepted a cigarette, which he savoured like a rare delicacy.

“My brother Percy, bless his romantic soul, gambled on the New York Coffee Exchange and lost everything: the family business, our income, every single thing we had. My advice to you, aside from keeping away from any form of gambling, is this: if you want to be beggared, better do it when one is young; it’s infinitely easier to recover from it at your age than at mine.”

Sherlock smiled ruefully: “I’m hoping to avoid such straits, but you do have much to appreciate: your writing, your friends...”

The older man laughed.

“Poverty is like a contagious disease: people usually prefer to avoid both. But you are here to talk about Rolfe, you said. A strange man, if ever there was one. Moody and extremely vengeful; in his books, Percy always appears under a favourable light, unlike your humble servant, which is described as silly for having written a poem about the pleasures of sleep and death,” he jested, exhaling a curl of smoke.

“He must have been really particular about art,” Sherlock observed.

“Ugly things really hurt him yet he wrote horrid verses about Saints. He was not well-read or intellectual in the obvious way, but he enjoyed using old-fashioned words and even inventing new ones, a hotchpotch of Latinisms and Italianate words.”

“I wonder why he wanted to be a priest when he seemed to have been anything but.”

O’Sullivan shook his head with vehemence, scattering ash all over the filthy carpet.

“No, my friend, you are quite wrong. He was entirely devout and the Church was his main interest, but unfortunately he was also self-centred and quarrelsome. Some men are made that way and no amount of talent or devotion can keep them on the straight and narrow.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened, as the barb hit close to home.

“I have heard he enjoyed painting and photographing boys.”

The poet turned suddenly serious.

“That was always a contentious subject. I remember him saying that whenever the lectures on moral theology came to the ‘horrors’ he would stop listening and draw pictures. By horrors, he meant sex-questions. And yet later I found out that Gleeson White became really upset with Rolfe after he used his son Eric as a model.”

“I thought the boy was called Cecil,” Sherlock exclaimed.

“That was the older one, a cousin of Gleeson White. But his pubescent son Eric is the one Rolfe really wanted to photograph. I remember Joseph – that’s Gleeson White – recounting me how he’d happened on them as the boy, clad only in a knitted cap, rushed in from the water, eager to be depicted in a ‘spontaneous’ pose. You can imagine the father was apoplectic with rage. Cecil wasn’t too happy either, or so I was told, although for entirely different reasons, I imagine.”

“But nothing untoward had happened.”

O’Sullivan pondered the question for a while.

“Rolfe had only a vague idea of realities: he lived in world of his own, making his own rules. You know he even had his own tobacco mixture which he called Corvine and that it was mixed specifically for him? I’m not digressing, dear chap; what I mean to say is that he may have thought nothing of seducing a young kid if he deemed his art would benefit from the act.”

Sherlock nodded slowly and offered the man another cigarette. He thought he would have to find a way to leave him the entire case without offending him.

“And where did this happen? Not in Sussex, by any chance?” he asked.

“Hampshire, my friend, Christchurch to be precise; such an apt name, don’t you think? Poor Rolfe, fame was all around him but never with him: did you know that he died in Venice in a Palace next door to the one where Wagner had closed his eyes for the last time?”

“An interesting coincidence,” the detective agreed. “And what about the boy Eric, what happened to him?”

“I have been informed that he wants to work for the Bank of England,” the older man said, grinning.

“What an inglorious ending.”

The poet laughed heartily, regarding Sherlock with friendly amusement.

“Indeed. I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you, and it wasn’t much at all.”

“On the contrary; this has been most informative and I feel I should reward you for the help you’ve given me.”

O’Sullivan cast him a wicked glance.

“Very well played, Mr Holmes; you planned to give me something, your cigarettes perhaps, without making it look like a charitable deed. Don’t fret, dear chap, I’m well past these niceties. When you get to my stage in life and after you’ve lost nearly everything, any act of kindness, however small, is more than welcome,” he said, accepting Sherlock’s offering.

“I shall treasure your wise counsel,” the latter said, seriously.

“And I shall smoke yours,” the American replied, shaking the detective’s hand firmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for taking the time to comment and kudos; it's all very much appreciated.
> 
> Next: John visits a church and he may be onto something, at last.


	11. Tides of Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where someone gets hurt and Moriarty returns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Mary Overgaard really was a good friend of T E Lawrence (Lawrence of Arabia)
> 
> Note 2: The acquisition of the church by Fr. Lockhart was as described (he was mistaken for the agent of the competing party). St. Etheldreda is truly a magnificent church, by the way.

_“I loved you, so I drew these tides of men into my hands_  
_and wrote my will across the sky in stars_  
_To earn you Freedom, the seven-pillared worthy house,_  
_that your eyes might be shining for me_  
_When we came.”_

_From The Seven Pillars of Wisdom by T. E. Lawrence_

* * *

 

Ely Place was a little oasis of peace and quiet tucked away from the hustle and bustle of Holborn Circus. The church was semi-hidden too, enclosed as it was by Victorian buildings in disrepair. The stone-wall façade did not prepare John for the sight that greeted him once he pushed the portal and walked up the narrow corridor: beyond the wooden screen, decorated with carved rosettes, the main body of the church was overlooked by a towering arched stained glass window; it had looked grey from the outside, but in here it was a kaleidoscope of vivid blues, reds and yellows. John recognised Jesus and the angels, but the other martyrs depicted were unknown to him.

He was lost in contemplation when he heard a voice coming from one of the two confessionals. Startled, he realised that he knew that voice, but before he could translate this vague certainty into a more concrete thought, the man spoke again.

“Doctor Watson, what a pleasant surprise!”

That unmistakable lilt belonged – of course – to the Bishop of Shrewsbury, who was gazing at him with his dark, reptilian eyes and a frozen smile on his sallow face.

“Your Excellency,” John said, with a smirk.

“It should be ‘My Lord’ according to church etiquette, but I suspect you wouldn't like calling me that.”

“And you would be right, Bishop. What brings you to London, if I may ask?”

Moriarty’s smile came to life and it was even more unpleasant by comparison.

“After you visit, I felt a sudden need to reconnect with my friend Lockhart, who is doing such marvellous work in this parish. Purchasing this church at auction was a stroke of genius, especially considering the Welsh Episcopalians wanted it too. I heard they had the backing of a very rich industrialist.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t win it then.”

The Irish man cackled.

“It appears they believed Lockhart was their agent rather than ours.”

 “I wonder what happened to their real agent,” John said, staring him in the eye.

“No one really knows for certain,” Moriarty replied, shaking his head, “ but I’ve heard rumours that he was consorting with a bawdy crowd on the very same day.”

“A bawdy crowd?”

“Naturally, I did not ask for the sordid details, but from what I could gather it was a group of degenerates delighting the contemplation of Satan.”

“Not the Freemasons, perchance?” asked John.

“I believe that’s what they call themselves; a group of lost souls who like to indulge in disgusting practices while pretending to address a spiritual being of their own fashioning,” the Bishop explained.

Despite his scornful words, John could detect no real censure in his rebuttal; on the contrary, he discerned the signs of delight and even vainglory, as if part of him wished to be rolling in the mud with them.

“I’m sorry for the poor Episcopalians, since were robbed of the possibility of bidding for a church they evidently wanted.”

“Wanting is not the same as obtaining; there’s a lesson there, for all of us.”

A silence charged with latent hostility filled the vast nave, until the pacifying figure of Fr. Lockhart emerged from the steps leading to the Crypt.

“My Lord, I hope St. Etheldreda meets with your approval,” he said, his pale blue eyes filled with worry.

“Charming, my dear Father, utterly charming. What you did with the chapel is admirable and should serve as example to us all,” he declared.

“Your sanction is most appreciated, My Lord, and fills me with humble joy.”

“As it should be,” Moriarty said, haughtily, before taking his leave, thus depriving the atmosphere of all its tension.

“He’s not your Bishop, is he?” John asked.

Fr. Lockhart smiled indulgently, unfazed by this display of ignorance of the Catholic hierarchy.

“No, dear Dr. Watson, nothing to do with our parish, but he was visiting the neighbourhood.”

“That’s the age-old excuse, isn’t it? I doubt that man has ever done anything that wasn’t carefully planned.”

The priest’s eyes widened at the assertion, but he did not contradict it, which for John was the same as a verbal admission.

“How can I help you?”

“Last night at The Ghost Club, Mr Holmes was unwell and there was no time for a proper conversation. Ms Redfern mentioned a country house in Sussex, and I was wondering if you know of any member of the club owning such a place.”

Lockhart mumbled something then shook his head.

“I can’t really say for sure. I think you should go see our dear Dutch friend, Ms Overgaard; she knows everybody and everything; a most excellent memory and an indomitable spirit. I've always thought it a pity that women should not be allowed into our fold.”

“I doubt the Bishop would agree,” John remarked, his eyes sparking with mischief.

“No, probably not,” the man replied, sheepishly. He rummaged inside his pockets and, at length, he extracted a pen and piece of paper in which he wrote down an address in Kensington.

 

Mary Overgaard was not home, or so it seemed: John had knocked several times at the door of her cottage off the Queen’s Road, but had received no replies.

He was about to leave, when a strangled noise came from the direction of the sash window that faced the street. He noticed that it was opened a few inches and before he could think twice about it, he raised it fully and, parting the curtains looked inside the room. He could barely see, as the mews in which the house was situated were shielded from the sunlight and the room itself was in darkness. The noise had ceased, but to the side of the fireplace John could discern something green and elongated, which may have been a fabric-clad limb. He looked around, and seeing as there was nobody in the vicinity, he climbed over the wrought iron gate and from there he jumped onto the window sill, tumbling inside the room and hitting the carpeted floor with a loud thud.

He’d hurt his injured leg and when he stood up, he winced in pain, a fact which Sherlock would surely notice with displeasure; for a moment, he thought he might have acted too rashly, but when he approached the object he’d seen from outside, he realised it was indeed the outstretched arm of Julia Redfern.

John knelt down by the prostrate lady and checked her pulse. It was faint and there was blood oozing from a cut on her head: it wasn’t deep enough to be the cause of her predicament; the blow had probably been inflicted with a heavy object with a blunt edge, but not too sharp to cause a deeper wound. He didn’t move her to avoid causing more damage; he called her name, but she did not regain consciousness. Stamford had given him the telephone number of his department and thankfully, there was a phone on the desk by the side of the window; he dialled the number and caught Mike just as he was going out for a spot of lunch. The nearest ambulance station was in Fulham, he said, and he would make sure they would send a car in the next ten minutes.

Dear Mike, John thought, he had not asked him the most obvious question; naturally, he’d understood it was to do with Sherlock and elected to keep his mouth shut.

The car duly came and John concocted a story about being a friend of the lady, but since he was a doctor he wasn’t questioned too closely. Naturally, the police would have to be informed, and it came as no surprise to him when later he found out that Inspector Lestrade has been assigned that particular case. Mycroft was evidently keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings, as his younger brother had predicted.

At the hospital, he was soon forced to leave, but not before he has been reassured the lady was in safe hands; they would have to examine her more closely and perhaps operate in case of swelling, but the surgeon was optimistic about a possible recovery.

 

“Do you think she knew something and was prevented from telling us or was it punishment for coming to us?” John asked his friend, who was frantically pacing up and down their sitting room, pulling his hair in a way that had the doctor wince in empathy for the poor, ill-treated curls.

“Where is Ms Overgaard? Why wasn’t she in the house with Ms Redfern? We need to find out,” Sherlock said, and in that very moment the telephone rang.

“Yes,” the detective answered, annoyed at having been interrupted, “Oh, Lestrade, of course. I should have guessed you’d already heard about it. I need you to find out something for me. What? How did you… never mind. She’s gone away to the country…Clouds Hill? Isn’t it Lawrence’s place?  I need to talk to her. Yes, of course, we are carrying on with the investigation. Tell Mycroft to keep his big nose out of this. No, I do not need his help; I have John Watson with me now; yes, I am sure. By the way, there was a meeting at Pagani’s last night and the victim was there; get the list from Ms Overgaard and find out everything you can about the people who took part in it. Yes, well, let’s pretend I said it,” he concluded, putting the receiver down with some force.

John grinned brightly.

“Did he ask you to thank him?”

Sherlock glared.

“The impudence of the man! He behaves as if it wasn’t because of his indolence that a murderer is still on the loose,”

“Moriarty is in London,” John said, looking at his friend intently. He wanted to add he wouldn’t let Sherlock out of his sight, but he knew it was better left unsaid.

“Yes, but I doubt a Bishop of Rome would hurt a defenceless woman.”

“He wouldn’t need to raise a hand; he has countless underlings too, like your brother.”

The detective grimaced.

“Please, let’s leave my awful brother out of this for as long as we can. I need to think! Oh, why wasn’t I there with you instead of smoking my time away with a failed American poet?” he whined, lighting a cigarette with a dramatic flourish.

“Yes, how did that go, by the way?”

“Another confirmation of Rolfe’s involvement with young boys: a certain Eric, son of Gleeson White the editor of The Studio, on which Corvo's photos were published. His country house is in Hampshire, not Sussex, unfortunately for us.”

“And you think it may all be part of the same pattern?”

“Obviously, John; something must have happened that upset the apple-cart. Knowing Rolfe, he could have done it on purpose as a form of revenge or only casually, because he was a contrarian. I know that sort of mindset only too well.”

John stood up and blocked his lover’s way.

“Do not think you are one and the same with him: I know you are not, you know you are not. This case is getting to you; please, don’t let it,” he said, tenderly caressing Sherlock’s wan face.

“What about you, John? You share his liking for youths and I won’t stay this way forever. Will you still care for me when I no longer am fresh and unblemished?”

The older man’s face hardened, but his eyes were filled with love.

“I won’t deny I like the greenness of youth, but don’t you see what you are to me?” he asked, brushing his thumb across Sherlock’s rosy lips; he let him feel the pressure of it, coupled with the intensity of his gaze.

“You never said,” the detective murmured, parting his lips to invite the finger inside his mouth.

“There’s every chance this case will throw us in the midst of even greater danger, so I’m saying it now,” John replied, half-closing his eyes to savour the sensation of Sherlock’s tongue on his thumb.

“You are everything to me, my darling, everything,” he stated, delighting in his friend’s stunned expression: his cheeks had rouged and his eyes were blinking furiously.

“Yes, yes,” the detective repeated after a while, unable to say the words he meant to, until John had mercy on him and kissed him, deep and forceful, keeping his lolling head in place with a vicious grasp on his curls.

“I’m glad of having finally dispelled your doubts on this matter,” John murmured, kissing hot, sweet-scented skin. Sherlock emitted the most sensuous of moans and let his friend hold him tight, as he leaned into the safe haven of his strong arms.

 After a long, delightful while spent in the same fashion, the detective decided it was time to offer John something, especially since he seemed unable to express the gamut of his feelings in a coherent fashion.

 “Come, I want to show you something,” he exclaimed, taking him by the hand and walking him in the direction of his sanctum. He opened the door which a defiant gesture, showing him the full extent of his oddness, what someone may call - perhaps - his ‘freakishness’, like that of a circus side-show.

“You lied to me,” the doctor murmured, gazing at the detritus accumulated on shelves and tables with amused awe.

“I never,” Sherlock started, moving around with balletic grace, lovingly caressing his Zeiss microscope, straightening a pile of books and wiping a film of dust off the surface of his beloved skull.

“You said you didn’t have anything interesting to tell me about yourself; I can see now that was a gross misrepresentation on your part,” John interjected, inspecting the skull with careful fingers, softly, as if he’d been handling Sherlock’s very heart.

“You don’t mind,” the younger man observed, surprised at John’s unexpected reaction.

“I thought of something in this vein, but I’m afraid I wasn’t endowed with sufficient imagination to conjure up the splendid variety of this room of yours. I really am the luckiest man in the world, or even in the universe, perchance?”

The detective erupted in a full-throated laugh that took years off his already youthful countenance.

“I wouldn’t know, my dear; as this is not a telescope and I am not an astronomer.”

“For all I know, you may be a magician, like Houdini. You made my limp disappear; this morning I landed on my bad leg – don’t look at me like this – yet it did not return.”

“You only needed a purpose and I gave you one,” Sherlock said, with a hint of self-satisfaction.

“You really did,” his friend replied, with a wicked smirk.

Once again, they were interrupted on their happy way to glorious intimacy: the front door bell rang as loud as the trumpet of the apocalypse, causing John to jump in surprise.

“What in the name of,” he cried out.

“I have had a bell installed in here. It can be turned off and I usually do so while I am working.”

“Horrid timing,” John said, and Sherlock concurred, with a wry smile.

They reached the sitting room at the same time as Mrs Hudson came in, introducing Mr Overgaard with a look of evident displeasure, as she took in the untidy black-bluish hair and the magenta velvet coat that enveloped her tall, slender figure from neck to ankles.

“I heard you were staying with Mr Lawrence; is he a good friend of yours?” the detective asked.

“Laurie is a darling. He detests possessions and has a horror of respectability; we do get on so well, him and me.”

“I wouldn’t have imagined you to be his type,” Sherlock observed.

The woman stared at him with her piercing dark brown eyes, studying him like a specimen under a magnifying lens. Her wide, square face seemed as blank as an unwritten page then she smiled and to John, it was like the room had suddenly filled with venomous snakes.

“I see you are of his same persuasion,” she said, raising her hand to touch Sherlock’s chest. John was lightning-quick, moving his friend out of her reach.

She turned her head to look at him, slowly appraising him, from head to foot.

“Yes, the very same desire to be disciplined. And by an ex soldier too, I see. Laurie would find you very pleasing, I’m sure. Shall I arrange it, Doctor? Money is of little consequence, as you may imagine.”

John saw that Sherlock was wearing once again his mask of icy indifference and that made him even angrier.

“I would not mention it again if I were you, madam. Private lives should remain just that, private,” he said, through clenched teeth.

“Very well said,” she conceded, but her eyes told another tale, one of denials taken as delayed acceptance. There would be none in this case, John thought, still enraged. That this awful viper could dare hurt his boy and cast him back into self-doubt and insecurity: that made him almost savage with fury.

“Why was Ms Redfern at your house when you were not even in town?” the detective asked, coldly; he had sat down on his armchair and was regarding her with steel in his eyes.

“She said she had a vision concerning my place and wanted to test it by spending time alone there. Since I was going away, I gave her a spare set of keys.”

“Who knew she was going to be there?”

“We spoke about it after the séance,” she replied, making a vague gesture with her hand.

“Could you give us a list of names and addresses of the people present that night?” John enquired, wanting to be rid of her tiresome presence.

The lady’s thin, red-painted mouth curved in a smile rife with contempt.

“We cannot give away information about our brothers. Even names should not be mentioned, as I often tell Julia.”

Sherlock laughed in her face, scornfully.

“Do you realise that some of these people are well known - Bligh Bond for instance - and that the police will force you to name the others anyway?” he spat out.

Undeterred by his assertion, she caressed the armrest of Sherlock’s chair with the tip of her long nails, contemplating the furrow she was digging with intent. John saw his friend shudder and felt the same shiver of distaste run through his own body.

“The police can try, but it doesn’t mean they will succeed. And it is not the reason why I came here. Last night, when Julia had her vision, you remembered something didn’t you? What was it, that’s what I’d like to know,” she said, in a soft, entrancing tone. Sherlock paled visibly, but said nothing.

“Because you see, my dear Mr Holmes, if you do have something to hide, the last thing you should do is let it fester until it’s a seeping, infected wound. There would be nothing to do then but cut off the whole limb, wouldn’t you agree?” she insinuated, her nails almost cutting through the heavy fabric of the armchair.

Still, Sherlock could not speak and John’s anger was starting to mount again, threatening to spill into something darker and more dangerous. She seemed to sense it and, breaking that spell, she bowed her head, like she had done the night before.

“I do bid you good evening, dear friends; time for me to pay a visit to dear Julia. If you wish to talk to me, you already know where to find me,” she said, her voice now brisk and distant.

When she left, the room seemed to have been vacated by an evil spirit of unknown provenance, and for this reason even more lethal.

 


	12. A Cluster of Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comforts his boy after an unpleasant visit (sexy times, so mind the tags)
> 
> We learn the collective noun for ravens (for those who don't know it already) - Corvo is the Italian for Raven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: It's really Bartitsu and not Baritsu, which was Conan Doyle's version, probably a misspelling on his part
> 
> Note 2: The Meleager's actual translation is quite different, but you can appreciate Rolfe's inventiveness with words by comparing his work to the original.

_“By Timo's Flood of Lover-loving curls,_

_By Demo's Balsam-breathing Sleep-beguiling skin_

_By Ilias pretty pranks, by Slumber’s foe, the Lamp_

_That Drinketh of my Revels many Songs_

_O Love, but scanty Breath is left upon my Lips_

_Yet speak the word, and I will pour out even this”_

_Excerpts from F W Rolfe’s translation of The Epigrams of Meleager_

 

* * *

 

 

The encounter with the serpentine Ms Overgaard had left both men shaken and what happened soon after that did not improve things one iota; in fact, quite the opposite.

John was trying to convince Sherlock to dine out and was making good progress, when another visitor arrived, one only marginally less welcome than the Dutch woman.

“Lestrade does not know the meaning of discretion,” Sherlock said, sighing in disgust at his brother’s appearance.

Mycroft Holmes was impeccably dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit and matching hat; he was carrying the umbrella they’d seen him purchase at the Burlington Arcade and looked ready to join a crowd of mourners at a state funeral.

“He didn’t say a word, brother mine. I have other weapons in my arsenal, although I have to admit it’s been quite a feat keeping abreast of your adventures,” he replied, accentuating the last word by looking at John with arched eyebrows.

The doctor sustained eye contact without blinking.

“What do you want, brother? Say your piece and leave us alone.”

“Manners, Sherlock!” the man exclaimed, but without real bite. “I’ve just heard from the hospital that Ms Redfern is still unconscious and bound to stay that way for a while. A very inconvenient thing for you,” he added.

“A lot more inconvenient for poor Ms Redfern,” John observed, making Sherlock smile in that quirky, endearing way of his.

“Quite so, Dr Watson; I would prefer not to have to say this about either of you, so please refrain from gallivanting about, uncaring of which hornets' nests you might upset.”

“This is my life, Mycroft, and my work and I will not have you dictate me, not anymore!”

The elder Holmes emitted a put-upon sigh and, using his umbrella as a walking stick, he left Baker Street.

 

John’s plan of getting a bite to eat had obviously been shelved, since Sherlock was by then too high on a cocktail of nerves and despondency to bother with food.

By now, the doctor knew his lover well enough to foretell he would smoke and pace his room until he was hoarse and exhausted, unless John did something to stop him.

The idea that came to him had been suggested by what had happened earlier.

“What about lying down for a while?” he asked.

“I’m not sleepy; I rarely am, in case you are wondering.”

“You could play the violin; I would love to hear you play again.”

Sherlock barely listened; he was evidently lost inside his own mind, trying to make sense of the stimuli and information crowding it.

“You’ve not been to my bedroom, not since I’ve been occupying it,” John ventured, and this time he succeeded in capturing Sherlock's undivided attention.

“No,” the detective replied, reduced to near-silence as he always was when stunned by his lover’s advances.

John determined that the best course of action would consist in dragging Sherlock to his lodging without wasting time in discussing it further.

Thus, the detective found himself immersed in John’s atmosphere, surrounded by his objects and scents. It was maddening and distracting, too many sensations coming at him from all directions, jangling his nerves and firing up his neurons.

“You can explore, if you like,” the younger man vaguely heard his friend say, but he barely heeded him, gripped as he was by the desire to know and understand.

In a drawer stuffed with odds and ends, he found it: John’s service gun. He stared at it without daring to touch it, as if he were in the presence of a deity or a deadly scorpion.

“It doesn’t bite,” John whispered in his ear; and then Sherlock was handling it, relishing its compact form and the way it fit in the palm of his hand, the coolness of the metal and the smell of gunpowder, acrid like a soldier’s sweat.

The older man sat down at the edge of the mattress, looking at Sherlock as he examined the weapon with the all-consuming focus he reserved to matters of utmost importance, such as the different types of ash or the various strands of colour in John’s hair.

“You like it then,” he said, and was rewarded with a deep growl.

“Will you teach me how to use it,” the boy asked, in a ragged voice.

“If the occasion warrants,” was the stern reply.

Sherlock’s gaze took in John’s stance and his mood shifted perceptibly; he returned the gun to its rightful place and, without a word, slid down to sit at his lover’s feet.

He glanced up from beneath shy, tremulous eyelashes, but he was to be surprised yet again.

“No, not this, my darling, not now,” John whispered and, unbidden, he joined the detective, kneeling on the rug next to him.

“I know what you need,” he said, and holding him firm - both hands curled around Sherlock’s throat -  he proceeded to invade his mouth with deep lashes of tongue; it was relentless and as much as the detective tried to reciprocate, he was overpowered and conquered by that mouth ravishing his, teeth biting at his lips and his breath being stolen and turned into an endless litany of moans.

When John released him, he was dizzy and thrumming with pleasure; so undone by it that he didn’t fully comprehend what happened afterwards: he found that he had been stripped naked and his lover, who was also unclad, had slicked his own hands with oil and was caressing between Sherlock’s legs. He was now sitting on his heels, thighs splayed; his erection jutted out and bounced like a live, unruly thing.

“Look at this pretty cock,” John said, and the word made the younger man blush, but he wanted to hear it again in his lover’s mouth; it was recorded in his memory, inscribed in it and he would bring it out every time he felt lonely.

But this maudlin thought was not allowed to take root as two slippery, strong hands closed around his stiff length and stroked it, from base to tip.

“Oh yes, yes,” he sighed, but his arms flailed around, not knowing what to do.

“Caress yourself, your nipples, softly. Do not rub or pinch.”

That was the command and he obeyed, and that was the last thought in his head for a long while.

The first touch of his fingertip on a raised nipple happened at the same time as John rubbing at the weeping slit of his glans: he must have shouted, as his throat felt strained. What followed was a calculated study in blissful torture: his soft, tentative brushes were counterpointed by rough strokes and squeezes; at one point, his testicles were being rolled and pulled and the head of his member strangled and pumped. When he thought he was about to lose his mind, John precipitated him inside an even deeper, darker abyss: his fat, thick arousal joined Sherlock’s and both were being held together like stems in a tight bouquet, and masturbated with ruthless, unrelenting precision.

“Come off with me,” he was ordered, and Sherlock was saying yes, but his mouth was no longer his own, possessed so profoundly again that he felt as if his life’s essence was being drunk down to the dregs, like his own blood was gonna erupt together with his seed.

He shook violently and held on to John’s shoulders and back as he sprayed their conjoined bodies with the hot evidence of his pleasure, except it wasn’t only his own, but his lover’s too, as he felt him push and rub against Sherlock’s already drenched skin, and release in shuddery, abundant spurts.

“My darling, my love,” John was chanting and he wanted to cry and laugh for joy, but he let his lover hold him and stroke him, as he repeated those tender words in Sherlock’s ear.

After a while, John used his discarded undergarment to wipe away the crusting fluids and, delicately, he guided a still dazed Sherlock on the bed and underneath the covers.

This time, instead of holding him from behind, John laid him down and taking first one of the boy’s hands in his and then the other, he kissed them thoroughly: fingers, palms and every inch of them, licking and sucking whenever he felt like it.

“They are made of moonlight,” he stated, following the tracery of veins in a pale wrist with the tip of his tongue; “they should not be handling coarse weaponry.”

“I have touched much worse,” the boy husked, his throat still strained from his ecstatic crying.

“Yes and I don’t want things to change, but as for this,” John nodded towards the drawer in which his gun was stored, “I’d rather be the one who gets to pull the trigger. It’s not a game, Sherlock.  Maiming and killing, what we did in the War… I don’t want you to go through that.”

Sherlock frowned and his lips curved into a childlike pout.

“You want to shelter me from the world, but I’m not as defenceless as you think,” he huffed.

“Not defenceless, no, I don’t think that you are, but perhaps your means of protection are less lethal?” the doctor suggested.

“If you are hinting at my brother, I’ll have you know he's much deadlier than your old pistol,” Sherlock replied, acidly.

Again, he was unprepared for John’s sudden burst of hilarity, a thing he could neither predict nor resist.

“I wasn’t, you delightful dolt; I was referring to other methods of self-defence, such as the oriental arts.”

The detective’s eyes lit up at the suggestion.

“I have heard of this club in Soho where a chap named Barton-Wright teaches a Japanese art named Bartitsu. Perhaps I should join one of his classes; what do you think?”

“It’s a splendid idea, darling,” John replied, caressing his lover’s face and neck. His tone of voice didn’t match his words, and immediately Sherlock deduced the cause behind his lack of enthusiasm.

“It won’t change anything between us, of that I’m certain. This – what exists between us – is what I need and I would never... In fact, it will most likely increase this unseemly craving of mine,” he explained, baring his throat so that his lover could cover it in bites and suckles.

“Precious thing,” John whispered and he already had one hand on Sherlock’s groin when the unmistakable noise of a door opening and closing had him on high alert.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

Throwing on his woollen dressing gown and plucking the gun from its drawer, the doctor slinked outside to welcome their intruder.

 

The man was too well-fed and elegant to be a vulgar thief, he thought, as he contemplated the figure standing in front of their fireplace and pensively gazing at the dying embers.

In a bizarre twist of events, the stranger was behaving as if that was his rightful abode and John was intruding on his privacy.

“And who might you be?” the latter asked, and to his extreme surprise the man replied, calmly:

“Doctor John Watson, I was looking forward to making your acquaintance. Maundy Gregory; please accept the most heartfelt apologies for forcing my way inside your lodgings,” the man said, extending a be-ringed hand in his direction.

Despite his astonishment, John shook it and as he did so, he noticed the glint of a precious stone on his cuff-link and another shimmer coming from the pin on his tie. Only later, once the lights were on, he saw that the former was a platinum ball covered in diamonds and the latter a black pearl. On his hand he wore a gigantic green scarab mounted in gold.

With his hair liberally brilliantined and parted in the middle, and his attire as flamboyant as his jewellery, Maundy Gregory emanated a whiff of adventure and danger, as well as that of wealth and success.

After this brief introduction, Sherlock entered the room, carrying a gas lamp: he was in his dressing gown and slippers and his bruised neck was enveloped by a silk scarf.  The intruder – their client – gazed at him and John: without saying a word, he conveyed the impression of having understood the nature of their relationship almost to its last detail.

“Mr Holmes, I don’t have much time before I leave for France. I needed to see you under the cover of night; I have taken precautions and nobody should know I am here.”

The detective was about to argue but Maundy Gregory silenced him.

“Don’t worry, earlier this evening Mrs Hudson has been invited by a relative she had not seen in a very long while. Families can be unpredictable, as we all know, don’t we Mr Homes? Very interesting that brother of yours, doing well for himself at Whitehall and all that. But I am digressing and I’m pressed for time.”

“Please take a seat, sir,” John said; the client seemed to ponder on it but then complied.

He did have a sort of epicene grace that didn’t quite befit his paunchy figure and when he took out his cigarette case, John saw that it was solid gold, emblazoned with the Royal crest.

“A present from the Duke of York,” the older man said, smiling broadly. He offered them his thin, long cigarillos, which they refused and lit one for himself, exhaling a pungent, azurine cloud.

“I have kept a watchful eye on the proceedings, Mr Holmes; not because I don’t trust you – perish the thought – but rather with the intention of surveying the clouds that are gathering around you and your companion. Dispelling them is not within my power, but I can warn you albeit indirectly. There are dark forces at work and some of them not entirely sane, I fear. I offer you the possibility of retiring from the case if you so prefer; you have already earned part of your recompense and I will pay it to you without delay; just say the word and it will be on your account by tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock’s eyes shone with excitement and it was immediately clear to John that Maundy Gregory’s words had attained the opposite effect; that he would never abandon the case, not if his life depended on it.

“What sort of clouds?” he enquired.

“I can’t be more precise or risk of endangering you both. Let me put is this way, dear chaps: we are on the side of the angels, but the devils may not be as described by our poets and saints; in reality, they could appear in quite the opposite guise, wearing the appearance of gentlemen of the highest order.”

“Should we fear for our lives; is that what you are saying?” John asked, unwilling to continue talking in riddles.

The man smiled again, but this time his eyes were as hard as the gem on his ring.

“Maybe not immediately, Doctor, but eventually, yes. Now you are being observed and humoured, even helped, but this impasse won’t last forever; there will come a time when you will be face to face with evil, my friends, and I wish you, nay I enjoin you, to be prepared for any such occurrence.”

“You want us to sail close to the wind,” Sherlock stated, still the same untamed excitement in his eyes; in spite of everything, the vibrancy of his countenance was doing things to his lover that he could hardly keep in check. All John wanted was to get his friend back into bed, force him on his hands and knees and make him scream.

“I wouldn’t dream of telling you how to proceed; you are the professionals and I will abide by your decisions, however unpalatable they may be,” their client replied, but his cautious words were belied by his feline grin.

“We won’t hold back, sir; we are not the sort that cowers in the face of danger,” John said and Sherlock stood up and went to window, looking down to the nearly deserted road. Only a car was parked there, black and silent, like a sleeping animal.

“Fear not, Mr Holmes, what you see there is my car; my man is waiting for me and he will call should there be any disturbance. But as I said, I don’t except there will be, not yet.”

“The spider is weaving its web and only then, when it’s ready, will it strike,” the detective murmured, his cheek resting against the cold window pane.

“There may be more than one; what is the collective noun for spiders?” Maundy Gregory asked, throwing his cigarette stub into the fire, where it disappeared among the flickering ashes.

“A cluster,” Sherlock replied, “not as dramatic as the one for ravens: unkindness.”

“An unkindness of ravens; yes, I see what you mean. Corvo must have loved that expression. I wish I’d known him,” the burly man said, walking to the door.

“Sometimes, I feel that he’s near me, guiding my steps,” the younger man said, touching his forehead to the frigid glass.

“I knew you were the right person for this undertaking; I trust you will not let me down,” was the client’s parting shot.

“We will not,” John replied, but as his words still resonated in the darkened room, the man was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and leaving kudos. I will reply to all asap :)


	13. Despair to Drowning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys solve one (small) part of the mystery as the bond between them gets even stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I have taken the story of the death of poet Digby Dolben and turned into something completely different. Dead by drowning at 19, he was the boy poet G. M. Hopkins was in love with. The poem Inversnaid was apparently inspired by Dolben's death.

_“A windpuff-bonnet of fáwn-fróth_

_Turns and twindles over the broth_

_Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,_

_It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning_ ”

_Inversnaid (excerpt) by G. M. Hopkins_

 

* * *

 

The lustful instinct John had felt in the sitting room all but evaporated when he had Sherlock in his bed again: the young man was in one of his dark moods; not a quiet, despondent one, but rather a fretting, restless agitation of the nerves.

Instead of distracting him with carnality, John chose to enfold him in tenderness: he stroked his hair, his face and his body until the boy’s pulse became less erratic and his breathing quietened.

“That horrid woman was right, John; if I can’t extract the poison of that memory, it will ruin me; perhaps it’s already too late, perhaps I was always dying and didn’t know it,” the detective murmured and their faces were so close his words were almost poured directly into his lover’s mouth.

“Surely your brother would have known of such a danger and protected you from it.”

“There is something I haven’t told you, John. Once, not long ago, the case I was investigating brought me to Paris and, having to infiltrate a certain type of criminal underworld, I started dabbling in stimulants. It was mostly opium cigarettes and I never lost control of my reactions, or so I thought, but now… I don’t know anymore. Perhaps, on my darkest night, I sleepwalked and perchance did unspeakable things; I can’t be sure, not anymore.”

The older man inched closer, until he could rest his lips on his lover’s; they kissed chastely, merely brushing mouth against mouth, for a long while; inside the warmth and safety of their cocoon, the world was far away and yet close enough to press down on them like a dome of impending sorrow.

“Do you suspect somebody of having stolen what wasn’t given voluntarily?”

John’s tone was laced with ferocity and his companion felt immensely cherished, like he’d never been before in his life.

“No, not that; before you came into my life, or should I say before I appeared in yours, I had never, not once,” Sherlock replied, unable to complete his sentence.

“Uncharted territory,” the blond man marvelled, once again, caressing that pristine skin. “A delicious, heaven-sent map, with mysterious cities and secret hiding places,” he continued, pressing the tip of his middle finger along the rim of his lover’s entrance; not a real penetration, but just the ghost of it.

“Yes, please, oh, please,” the detective begged, but to no avail.

“If I do as you ask, it will only make us both even more ravenous. It’s one of those nights when satiation is impossible,” John sighed, and seeing that Sherlock wasn’t to be convinced by this paltry explanation, he continued.

“There are times - rare as a four-leaf clover – when more of the other person, of his embraces and his abandon, will not satisfy; nothing will, except a continuous, endless consummation. Once, I felt the shadow of this, but I was intoxicated and fearing for my life; that excitement coupled with my youth had me believe I had found the wellspring of erotic pleasure.”

“How do you know you didn’t?” asked a very disgruntled consulting detective.

“Because I’ve found it with you and it’s a million times more powerful than that treacherous lust was. I want you with all of my body and soul and I will never get enough of you. But tonight, especially tonight, I feel that I could suck you dry and still be thirsty; I prefer to hold you and kiss you, knowing that I’m giving you what you really need, here and now.”

Sherlock had composed a scathing rebuttal in his head, one that accused John of the most heinous crimes of sexual negligence and intolerable cruelty, but by the end of his friend’s reply, his heart was exploding in his ears and he was struck dumb.

“I love you,” he murmured after an eternity, and his cheeks burnt when he realised what he had let slip. John regarded him with adoration and, after placing a solemn kiss on the boy’s bitten-red lips, he replied:

“And I love you, more than anything ever, my darling. Will you sleep now, if I hold you tight like the other night?”

Without a word, Sherlock lay back against his lover, who closed his arms around him and squeezed, until the world felt safe again and the night was velvety and sultry like the petals of a crimson rose.

 

The following morning, there still were no good tidings about Julia Redfern. The poor woman was still unconscious and Lestrade had not found any clues on the scene of the crime that could bring him to the assailant.

“We have to go there now,” Sherlock said, as they were having breakfast.

John was happily eating his third slice of buttered toast and whistling a tune under his breath.

“What, why?” he asked, and his friend sighed prettily, letting his chest show through the opening of his dressing gown.

The detective appreciated John’s reasons of the previous night, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t provoke him, if the occasion warranted. Jut because he enjoyed a bit of pain, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t respond in kind, from time to time.

“I can’t trust Lestrade and his stooges to discern the details; if they did, they wouldn’t be working for the Yard, they’d be my competitors.”

“But you said you were the only consulting detective in existence.”

“Precisely, John. And that is why we have to search that place inch by inch, until it yields the reason of that woman’s vision.”

“I could do with not seeing Ms Overgaard again for the next century, at least.”

The younger man laughed and leaned closer to his friend, so that he could snatch the last bit of bread from his plate: John was quick enough to bat his hand away, but not sufficiently ruthless to insist when he saw Sherlock’s pleading expression. He knew it was feigned, but it didn’t matter.

“She won’t be there, don’t worry. Lestrade has told her she couldn’t return for another day and she left the keys at her neighbours,” the detective explained, cheerfully munching his purloined toast.

“Well, that’s some consolation, I suppose,” John replied, drinking his tea with a resigned expression. “Do you think she was telling the truth about her vision?”

“It could be a lie, but whether it’s coming from the victim or from that serpent, we won’t know until Ms Redfern’s return to the land of the living. I’m certain that the house contains something that implicates Ms Overgaard, but it’s so subtle that the police can’t see it. Not that they could if it stared them in the eye; or dropped in their lap; or slapped them in the face.”

“Yes, alright, I get your point, Mr Vanity in Cheap Clothes,” John said, and his quip earned him a peek at Sherlock’s naked torso, down to where a trail of raven hairs disappeared into the silken embrace of his dressing gown.

“You do that again, you’ll live to regret it,” he chided, licking his lips with a furious gleam in his eyes.

“I seriously doubt it,” the detective replied, but he hastened to cover his modesty and, swallowing a mouthful of coffee, he headed to his rooms to get ready.

“Maddening child,” John muttered, but he couldn’t refrain from smiling.

 

When John had last been in Ms Overgaard’s house, he hadn’t had the time to look around, and aside from the stone fireplace, the telephone and the rug on which poor Ms Redfern had been lying, he had not noticed anything else.

It was – in fact – a house crammed with objects, almost as unusual as the ones Sherlock collected inside his lair: there were stuffed birds, coloured crystals, large volumes about astrology and chirology, photographs of waterways and woods, painted portraits of men and women in licentious poses and a number of dark, mahogany furniture pieces oppressing the dainty, low-ceilinged rooms, like ancient pachyderms in a glass cage.

Inside her bedroom, where John had entered on tiptoes, the four-poster bed was hung with a net of black-lace that gave credence to the imagery of spiders suggested by Maundy Gregory.

“What a ghastly place!” he exclaimed, picking up an orbicular rubbery object that he later realised could have been a bovine eye.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, with a rapt expression; obviously - John reflected - taxidermy items would elicit a different reaction from someone whose most treasured possession was a human skull.

“You don’t imagine she has a human heart hidden somewhere, do you?” he asked, feeling somewhat queasy.

“One can but dream,” was the reply, to which he had barely time to wince before his friend added. “I’m jesting, dear. I do not wish to find a human heart anymore than you did mean to handle that pickled eyeball. Organs belong in the mortuary, where I can examine them in the appropriate way,” he said, and this time he was not being ironic.

“Why are you laughing; what have I said now?” the detective huffed.

“Nothing, my dear, you’ve just brightened up my day,” John replied, in between chuckles.

                                                                             

“There is nothing here to suggest any particular sort of misdeed; lots of Satanic material, but all rather harmless in the great scheme of things: devils do not break people’s head, unless they are of the living and breathing sort,” Sherlock commented, shaking his head in displeasure.

“She certainly seems to like water,” John observed, gazing at the picture of a riverbank, lined with frail, silvery poplars.

“Yes, she does, doesn’t she” his friend said in a half-distracted tone, before he suddenly sprang to life, removing the framed photograph and taking it with him to the drawing room where a few others were adorning the magenta-painted walls.

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I remember I read about it in the papers; it was years ago, I was little more than a child, but it stayed with me… it was in a place in Hampshire, yes, I know, now I recall… the young boy drowned, but the man didn’t… the child’s name was Constantine; I never forgot it because it was such an unusual name, yet his surname was more common, something prim… Priestley, no… Pritchard! Yes, Constantine Pritchard; he was a good swimmer, must have been about ten or eleven and the man, whose name, alas, I have obliterated, took him to the river and swam with him. Returning, he reported that the boy suddenly sank within a few yards of the bank to which he was swimming.”

“And you thought there was something unusual in that death?”

“Yes, I remember thinking it odd that a boy would have sunk for no apparent reason and the man – I say man, but he must have been no older than twenty – could not succeed in saving him. And this picture here, I could swear it’s the exact same spot!” Sherlock cried out, his fingers trembling a little.

“And this Constantine – if alive - would be about your age now, which means the young man would be as old as me or slightly younger,” John said.

“He could have changed his name and be a number of people, but why would it matter now? Ms Redfern mentioned seeing water and a boy, among the weeds, and the blows, the hurt, oh my God, John!” Sherlock cried and, before John could catch him, he blacked out and fell to the floor.

 

“You must cease this fainting business, my dear; you’re starting to scare me.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and couldn’t remember where he was: he saw the maroon ceiling and the dusty legs of a commode, and it was only when he caught a glimpse of the photograph reposing face up on the floor that memory came back to him; it was with a twinge of lips and an emptiness of heart, that he realised where he was, with his head on John’s lap and the man’s fingers checking his pulse.

“Glad you’re back among the living, but I wish you would tell me what the matter is,” the doctor scolded, but his touch on the young man’s skin was delicate.  

“I swear I have never visited this riverbank and that I don’t know what it is that troubles me so. It’s sudden and I can’t seem to be able to stop it, John. I wonder if it’s possible to instil fake memories into a man and watch him from afar as he goes insane,” he whispered, hysteria shivering just below the surface of his quiet tones.

“It may be, for all I know; but you and I are stronger than them.”

“How do you know, John? Maundy Gregory mentioned the devil.”

“I have met the devil, my darling; in the open fields of the Somme, I saw it, fixing his evil stare on us all. But we did not waver then and we won’t now.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, luxuriating in his lover’s comforting voice and strong hands.

“We’ll visit the archives of the British Library; they should have a copy of the newspapers in which that article was published,” he said.

“I’m surprised you don’t have a copy in that museum of yours,” John quipped.

“I would have, if Mycroft hadn’t thrown away my collection of memorabilia the first time they tried to ship me off to boarding school. He was just waiting for me to go, before he made a tabula rasa of my most prized possessions,” the detective snarled.

“He was probably convinced you wouldn’t need them any longer; that you’d put your childhood behind you.”

Sherlock sat up all of a sudden, as if he’d just been stung by a wasp.

“If you are implying my collection was childish, you are siding with horrid brother against me! It was an encyclopaedic compendium of the suspicious and the interesting; besides, you said - you assured me - that you understood,” he scolded, trying to move away from his friend, but in vain. John pulled him back into his arms and kissed his hair.

“I do understand, my dear, and I apologise for being a fool; of course you wouldn’t collect toy soldiers, like most of us,”  the doctor said, brushing his lips along the jaw of his skittish lover.

“I prefer to collect real ones,” the young man declared.

“Just the one, I hope,” John murmured, taking his lover’s mouth in a violent kiss.

It was becoming a serious problem, he thought, that he couldn’t keep his hands and mouth off Sherlock, not even inside the home of a suspect.

When they moved apart, the detective was starry-eyed and crimson-cheeked, and John had to force himself to look away and think of spiders and vipers.

“Time to get out of this snake’s pit,” he said, as he helped his friend up on his still-wobbly legs.

“Let’s put the photographs back into their rightful places; make sure she won’t notice,” he added.

Sherlock regarded him with pity.

“If she’s part of a murderous conspiracy, she won’t be fooled that easily,” he said, but helped his companion nonetheless.

 

“Constantine really is a lovely name,” John mused, as they emerged from King’s Cross station onto the Euston Road.

“A Saint worshipped in Cornwall, in the Lizard district,” the detective stated, distractedly.

“Not another one! Please don’t tell me he was another of Rolfe’s obsessions. Oh my god, Sherlock, did that Saint drown by any chance?”

“I doubt it, but I’m not convinced it would have mattered to Corvo. He liked water; after all, he died in Venice, a city that is built on it.”

Inside the British Library archive, the atmosphere was devoid of the malevolence present in Ms Overgaard’s rooms, and the danger seemed distant again, a far-away threat they could face with ease.

They spent a couple of hours searching for their prize; even though Sherlock knew the year it had happened, he could not recall the day or even the month. When he found it, the detective’s eyes shone as green as a cat’s in a dark alley.

“Here, John, look at the trees and the meadows in the distance, look at that church spire and the weathervane on top of that house on the left-hand side: it’s all the same as in that photograph!”

John wished they had taken the original with them, but even without it, there was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock was right.

“And this is the boy, Constantine,” he murmured, looking at the angelic countenance of a blonde ten-year old with curly hair and pale eyes, that would have doubtless been blue in real life.

“What about the man, are there no pictures of him?” he asked, but Sherlock didn’t hear him as he was already leafing through a pile of newspapers in search of other titles bearing the same article.

“I found it; here it is! You can hardly see his face… it doesn’t say the name, that’s why I didn’t remember it… just his initial, Mr D. Look at him, tell me what you think,” Sherlock exclaimed, holding the yellowed paper carefully in his hands.

“John, what is it? Why are you… what? Oh, I see… I’m so sorry, dear, so very sorry,” he said, watching as the blond man paled and turned his gaze away, as if he’d just witnessed the death of a dear friend, which in a sense was precisely what had taken place.

“Sholto, it’s Sholto... he must have been tutoring this Constantine boy at his home in Hampshire and what, killed him? Drowned him? No, I don’t believe it! Why would he do it, murder a boy?”

The detective shook his head, not wanting to confess what he suspected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your support. It's so very much appreciated.


	14. A Piece of Music

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock come to terms with the discovery of Sholto's alleged crime.
> 
>  
> 
> (Very) sexy times, so please mind the tags

_“What makes the man and what_  
_The man within that makes:_  
_Ask whom he serves or not_  
_Serves and what side he takes…”_

_On a Piece of Music (fragment) by G. M Hopkins_

* * *

 

The sky had turned that dirty shade of indigo typical of a cloudy winter’s late afternoon; they walked past the newly built Quaker’s Friends House and turned into Gower Street, in the direction of the British Museum.

Sherlock had said he needed to have a look at something, but the truth was he thought John needed a distraction and the public house would probably only have increased his maudliness; to be entirely honest, it was the place he usually visited when he was downcast or when Mycroft decided to made his life a misery, occurrences which, more likely than not, often came as a pair.

He could disappear inside any past civilisation and emerge hours later, washed clean of his present sins and disenchantments.

John had not said a word after that horrible revelation and his eyes were as dark as thunderclouds.

The Elgin marbles would cheer him up, Sherlock thought; they always did that for him; he usually sat down on the bench facing the Parthenon frieze and was transported back to a sun-drenched Arcadia, where philosophy had had held a prominent place in society and where logic and reason had been idolised.

There were few visitors, as the Museum was about to close for the night, so they had the room almost entirely to themselves.

“He was a nice man; I’m not saying this just because he was my friend,” John said, suddenly.

“And your lover,” Sherlock interjected, somewhat surly. Oddly, he’d not realised he had been aggravated until John had spoken.

“Yes, my lover; we enjoyed each other in the biblical sense, but that didn’t make me oblivious of his character. He was not a violent man; obsessive perhaps, and at times, easy to influence, but not a bad person... not a criminal.”

“You said he was infatuated with Corvo and I’m still unconvinced that the message about the tiara wasn’t in code. It was too insistent, too pleading to be a simple request from a scholar or even a friend. Perhaps he was asking for directions, how to proceed after the deed was done.”

“What, waiting for his recompense after the crime? You believe Sholto was like Masson Fox, angling for a lewd story or two, but that being short of money he paid with criminal acts instead?”

John had raised his voice and one of the museum attendants, an elderly man with a Kaiser Wilhelm moustache, threw him a Teutonic glance of disapproval.

Sherlock laid his hand on his friend’s thigh and felt him stiffen; that didn’t please him in the least, so he squeezed a little, showing he didn’t have any intention of removing it.

“It’s possible, that’s all I’m suggesting. Sholto was a good swimmer and he drowned. Constantine Pritchard was also a competent swimmer and he perished too. In between these two deaths, lies a mystery which encompasses more than a decade and a spider’s web as vast as the country, perhaps even farther than that. A man like Maundy Gregory was so alarmed he decided to break into our flat and all you want to do is cry over your poor Sholto!”

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to incur the censure of the Kaiser, but his own icy stare was more than a match for the man’s glaucous one.

For the first time since they’d sat there, John turned to look at his companion and - after a brief contemplation of his austere profile - he covered the narrow, pale hand with his own, interlacing their fingers.

“You don’t have one single solitary reason to be jealous, my darling,” he said, softly; which, of course, was the wrong thing to say in the worst choice of tone.

“I’m not _jealous_!” the detective glowered, retracting his hand, “I’m just saying that we should be working to unearth the truth instead of indulging our moods.”

The doctor’s eyes widened in disbelief, but he decided that arguing with his companion would serve no purpose.

“Alright,” he said instead, calmly, “what is our next step to be then?”

“Lestrade will provide us with all the details about the Pritchard case. Once we know the full picture, it will be easier to assess what really happened.”

“It took place near Christchurch,” John said.

“Yes, and we know Rolfe stayed there. O’Sullivan mentioned he took pictures of Eric Gleeson White and Cecil Castle in that village, which – in case you were wondering – is situated in proximity of the river Avon.”

“And, while Corvo indulged his photographic hobby together with his tendency to ogle naked pubescent bodies, Sholto was following him, trying to catch his eye by offering him another young prey; like a cat catching mice and laying them at his master’s feet; it’s disgusting, absolutely unspeakable,” John spat out.

Sherlock blushed yet refused to comment, his mouth set in an obstinate white line.

“Why don’t you tell me what you think, rather than look like the living and breathing picture of dissent?” John huffed.

The detective sighed and shook his head.

“There could be an even more distasteful explanation and I’m not sure you’re prepared to contemplate it.”

“Sherlock,” John said, in his most soldierly tone.

“Corvo was a man of the cloth, in his heart if not in actuality, so I suspect he would not indulge his carnal instincts, no matter how intense. He may have transgressed his chastity vow before his death, but perhaps not until he went to Venice. Before that, he may have lived on vicarious pleasures, such as knowing of his friends’ dalliances and affairs; nay, more than that: not mere knowledge, but creating and directing those encounters, like a deus-ex-machina.”

“You are implying that he told Sholto to proposition a young boy only to let him drown when he rejected his advances? It’s monstrous!” John exclaimed and this time, the elderly attendant cleared his throat sonorously.

“Let’s go,” he added, and before the detective could reply, he hurried towards the exit.

“I suggested no such thing, John,” Sherlock said, as they were pacing towards the Tottenham Court Road. “What I meant was that Sholto may have been asked to convince Constantine to pose naked for Corvo and when he refused, there may have been a scuffle which caused the boy to drown; or he may have,” he started then immediately stopped.

“Constantine may have threatened to tell his parents and that would have ruined Sholto’s reputation for good. In his desperation, he may have lost his head and drowned the poor boy,” John concluded.

“Was he the impulsive sort?”

“Yes, I suppose he was.”

They walked the rest of the way in silence, each refusing to meet the other’s gaze.

 

Once at 221b, John went straight to his bedroom, while Sherlock - hurt and trying not to show it - telephoned Lestrade; with a few, brusque words, he convinced the Inspector to look for the details of the Pritchard’s accident and send him a copy of the case notes at his earliest convenience.

Later, when the afternoon had bled into evening, a thick envelope arrived delivered by a boy whom Sherlock would have forgotten to tip had it not been for John, finally emerging from his solitary confinement.

“May I read it, too?” he asked, still avoiding the detective’s eyes.

“Obviously; you are still my aide-de-camp, if I am not mistaken,” was the haughty reply.

In silence, they pored over the documents, which did not contain anything to contradict Sherlock’s hypotheses. The boy had been healthy and a vigorous swimmer and Sholto Douglas had been in such a state of distress he could not give a reliable account of the facts. He’d ended up in hospital too, with a mild form of short term amnesia, due to the shock of the events.

“How convenient,” Sherlock had let slip, and John had made a sound of assent, before darting to the kitchen to prepare a pot of tea. Mrs Hudson had returned from her impromptu visit, but he wasn’t in the mood to see other people, especially nice, blameless ones. Now that it was almost certain Sherlock had been right, John felt his entire past was one endless chain of mistakes; his inability to gauge the character of those near him was alarming; at this juncture, how could he be certain that his present situation wasn’t another lapse in judgement; that his lover/working partner wasn’t another compulsive liar who would only take advantage of him and discard him when a more interesting proposition came along?

When he returned into the sitting room, he nearly dropped the tray with teapot, cups, saucers and all.

Sherlock was standing by the – thankfully – curtained window, violin and bow in his hands, as naked as the day he was born.

Without a single look at his lover, he turned away from him, and started playing a dramatic piece, one with a maddening, repetitive motif. Five minutes in, it was driving John insane and he was certain the detective was aware of it and persevering with intent.

“Stop,” he ordered, loud and stark, like the crack of a whip. The naked man straightened perceptibly, as if he’d been lashed, but he kept at it with undimmed enthusiasm.

John let him for another minute then closed the distance that separated them and placed a hand on his neck.

“I said stop.”

Raising his voice above the din, the detective replied:

“Make me.”

The doctor pondered for a moment then without a word of warning, he grabbed a fistful of soft nape curls and pulled so viciously Sherlock almost lost his balance.

“Put that violin down; do it now,” John hissed in his lover’s ear, underscoring his command with a bite on a rosy lobe.

Wordlessly, the younger man let the instrument rest on the window seat, before turning to look at his friend with eyes as black as night; a blush had spread from his cheeks down to his chest and his lips were parted as if he had trouble breathing.

“On the rug, on your hands and knees,” John ordered; his mind was a vast ocean of calm, whose only concern was making his lover happy, giving him what he was yearning for. He berated himself for doubting Sherlock, who was showing him his devotion in the only way he knew would cut through John’s guilt and self-disgust.

Once he was rid of his garments, he knelt on the floor, behind his lover.

“You are perfection itself,” he murmured, caressing the back of the boy’s thighs, his long, quivering back and the swell of his fleshy buttocks.

When the detective moaned, he cupped the full sac and pulled a little; Sherlock cried out and spayed his legs as wide as he could.

“Christ, look at you,” he swore, and when he felt the boy tremble beneath his hands, he knew it was time: in one clinical move, he parted the rounded buttocks and dove in. The first touch of his tongue on the sweet, tight ring of muscle was enough to make his lover buck like a wild horse; he had to slap him on the thigh and grasp him hard by the hips to keep him still. It worked: he still felt the tremors and shivers that wracked that lithe body, but they only ratcheted his pleasure even higher.

 

Sherlock was certain he was going to die from pleasure.

He had wanted to provoke John’s reaction and had been sure the combined stimulus of a repetitive melody together with his effrontery would achieve the desired result. What he had not anticipated was the earth-shattering effect of having John’s tongue working at that part of his body.

Initially, it had been just tentative, almost shy, licks, which had been delectable enough, but after, oh after!

He tried to keep still, but couldn’t and got spanked for it; it was so insanely good, he wanted to tempt his fate again, but was too afraid the other torture might stop.

His insides caught fire as his lover slurped him up, wetly lapping at his entrance, only to then use his tongue as a spear to penetrate him, fast and dirty, as deep as it could.

The animal noises John was making deep in his throat joined Sherlock’s sobs and growls, but they were nothing compared to the lewd suckling sounds of that mouth as it devoured his anus.

It only ended at the point when, as his swollen testicles were awash with John’s saliva and about to explode, his cock stiffened and spent in vehement, abundant jets.

“Oh, yes, yes, mm, yes,” he heard John mumble, his mouth still pressed against the loosened, sopped rim.

The detective knew what was needed then: shaky, sweaty and breathless, he turned round and ducked his head; he found his prize, hard and leaking, and swallowed it to the hilt.

“Oh, my love, my darling love,” John crooned, but Sherlock did not reply as he was gorging on his mouthful of bliss. It did not take long, and as he half-choked on the sweet-salty discharge, his heart sang in complete happiness.

 

“I’m sorry about before,” John whispered, as he towelled off his boy with a bath sheet. After their coupling, he had taken him to the wash-room and sponged him down with soapy water, revelling in his pliancy.

“You doubted us, and I don’t blame you,” Sherlock replied, smiling dazedly; in truth, he had been hurt a little, but he saw now that John had his reasons and that he should do his utmost to help dispel those awful clouds.

“It’s not pleasant to find out that you’ve been hoodwinked by the people that you trusted, that you considered as your friends.”

“I would never do that you, John. I have shown you all that I am.”

The doctor’s eyes filled with tenderness as he caressed Sherlock’s cheek, placing a kiss on the tip of his nose.

“I haven’t kissed you properly yet,” he whispered and proceeded to do just that: deep, possessive and sweet.

 

“Let’s go out for dinner,” John proposed, as they smoked a cigarette in front of the open window.

“I have to admit I could do with a spot of dinner.”

It was agreed they would walk to Pagani’s and sample their offerings; after all, they had already tried their séance rooms, so why not complete the experience?

“What was the piece you were playing earlier?” the doctor asked, as they made their way to Great Portland Street.

“You hated it,” Sherlock remarked, grinning.

“No, it’s not what I felt at all,” John countered. “It was intended to rouse me and it worked, but I did not dislike it; quite the contrary.”

“It was Schoenberg; I suspected it would have that effect.”

John laughed; because of that, he did not hear the man who came up behind him and pushed him to the side; taken by surprise, he stumbled and nearly fell, luckily finding the support of a wrought iron gate. A car appeared as if from nowhere and with a screeching of tyres and brakes, it halted, almost driving over the pavement; before he could fully realise what was happening, he saw a flailing Sherlock being bundled in to the vehicle, which soon gathered speed, leaving John aghast and incapable of motion.

 

“Don’t move, Mr Holmes, or I would have to force you to stay still, and I'd rather do without the fuss,” the man said.

As soon as Sherlock had been pushed inside the car, someone had blindfolded and handcuffed him and a large hand as strong as John’s but not as delicate had been pressed against his mouth; he’d struggled for a while, but had soon calculated it wouldn’t be worth it.

“Where are you taking me?” he muttered, against the fleshy palm of the man’s hand.

“You will see it when we are there; it won’t take long.”

“Will you allow me to see?”

“Who knows? If I were you, I’d stop asking questions.”

The tone was polite, but there was no mistaking the menace threading through it.

The car moved speedily across roads that seemed empty to Sherlock’s well trained ear; he suspected they were heading to the City, but he could not imagine the reason.

Finally, the car came to an abrupt halt and he was quickly pushed out of it and through the door of a building. There was not enough time to deduce the exact location, but the fug that enveloped them as they walked along what seemed like a carpeted corridor, spoke of a motel or hotel, a rather busy one, judging by the distant sound of voices in what must have been the reception.

They ascended a couple of staircases, forty-seven steps in total, turned right then left before a heavy portal opened and closed and the air changed, becoming cooler and incense-drenched, like the inside of a church or a temple. Temple, of course! – he thought; a quick succession of deductions followed: City, Liverpool Street, the Great Eastern Hotel and, inside it, the Masonic Temple.

“Please untie Mr Holmes then leave us alone,” a steely, lightly-accented voice said.

And sure enough, as soon as he was able to see again, his eyes opened upon the neoclassic magnificence of the Grecian Temple.

Because of the scant light provided by the bronze, claw-footed candelabra, he could barely discern the marble column and the blue and gold dome with its blazed star, but the checkerboard floor, with its esoteric signs, was unmistakable.

“Your skin is like milk and lilies, my dear. I wonder if it feels as soft as it looks. Knowledge is a powerful thing, but disappointment can be as destructive, wouldn’t you say? We shall find out together, darling,” the man said, in a mock-affectionate tone.

  
Sherlock couldn’t see him, but felt a gust of air caress his cheek; after that, a gloved hand descended upon his shoulder.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Eastern Hotel is now the Andaz Liverpool Street Hotel. The Grecian Masonic Temple is still there and can be visited upon reservation.
> 
> Thanks for your kudos and comments!!!!


	15. Love, Liberty and Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will John find Sherlock?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: "For at that moment all became radiant and beautiful, my consciousness expanded to touch the inner world of realities - my mind had come into contact with some inner centre of my being, which was God...I eventually fell asleep in peace, and rose the next morning feeling a new being. Everything was filled with new Life, Love, Liberty, and Light." This passage is taken from "Aleister Crowley The Biography" By Tobias Churton
> 
> Note 2: The founder of Thelema, author Aleister Crowley, says of the Abyss in his Little Essays Toward Truth: "This doctrine is extremely difficult to explain; but it corresponds more or less to the gap in thought between the Real, which is ideal, and the Unreal, which is actual. In the Abyss all things exist, indeed, at least in posse, but are without any possible meaning; for they lack the substratum of spiritual Reality. They are appearances without Law. They are thus Insane Delusions. Now the Abyss being thus the great storehouse of Phenomena, it is the source of all impressions."

_“For at that moment all became radiant and beautiful, my consciousness expanded to touch the inner world of realities - my mind had come into contact with some inner centre of my being, which was God...I eventually fell asleep in peace, and rose the next morning feeling a new being. Everything was filled with new Life, Love, Liberty, and Light.”_

_From Frank Bennett’s journal – while staying at Aleister Crowley’s Abbey of Thelema_

* * *

 

John Watson was a man of action.

Even when he began studying and training to become a doctor, he’d yearned for adventure and, in a twisted way, he had been excited when his country had gone to war. Naturally, that only lasted until he witnessed young boys die in the most atrocious ways: in no man’s land, soldiers had been blown to smithereens and the trenches had been lined with organs and limbs. Despite all this destruction and despair, he’d always kept fighting without losing his nerve. Only when he got shot, during those long weeks in hospital when grey seemed to be the only colour and life was a newsreel to be watched backwards, did John Watson become a broken man.

The years with Mary were a long sojourn in limbo, waiting for something to happen; he had not admitted it, not even to himself, not until his wife had died and Sherlock had come along, with his mysterious profession and his dramatic ways. In a handful of days, the detective had changed John’s life and become the most important thing in it.

The events had unfolded so quickly that at times he could hardly believe they were happening at all, that his friend and lover truly existed; which perhaps explained why, after Sherlock had been taken from his side in such a ruthless yet theatrical manner, John Watson stood as if petrified, not a single thought in his mind, except for “what shall I do?”

Tears, he thought, I’m crying and my heart is going to shatter into pieces.

In fact, by pure coincidence, it had started to rain: a few, solitary drops that swiftly turned into a deluge of almost biblical proportions.

That shook him out of his trance and, ignoring the aches and pains in his bad leg, he ran back home.

The flat still smelled of Sherlock’s cologne and of the smoke of his cigarette. He wanted to walk into the detective’s hiding place and sit there among the outlandish objects and the stacks of books and papers, conjuring up his lover by dint of a magic trick, an illusion or a miracle, turning back time.

But that would have been unproductive and cowardly, and he knew only too well how Sherlock despised inertia and timidity.

In the end, he knew there was only one thing he could do.

“Inspector Lestrade, please… yes, tell him it’s Doctor John Watson… yes, I’ll wait, thank you.”

After he explained what happened, including a description of the make of the car and its general characteristics, the Yard man enjoined him to stay calm and that he would be there as soon as he possibly could.

When the front door opened and he heard Mrs Hudson's brief greeting, John was pleasantly surprised by the Yard's celerity of service.

“Doctor Watson,” the voice said, and it didn’t belong to Gregory Lestrade.

He should have guessed it by the absence of their landlady who, like a dog scenting an earthquake, had sensibly decided to retire to her lodgings rather than spend any unnecessary time with their visitor.

“Mr Holmes,” John sighed, as he invited a buttoned-up Mycroft to sit on their least comfortable armchair; not that he disliked him, but he wanted to be faithful to Sherlock and his wishes, no matter how discourteous they might be,

The elder Holmes seemed to understand, because he rolled his eyes before lowering his disapproving posterior on the edge of said chair.

“We were just coming up to Great Portland Street, when this Packard Six suddenly appeared out of literally nowhere and…”

“You can spare me the story, sir; the good Inspector has already told me everything. I did warn you about this eventuality; the dangers of foolhardiness, the perils of,” Mycroft pontificated, but was stopped by John’s irate voice.

“The last thing I need at present is a sermon, Mr Holmes; what I want from you and Scotland Yard is that you help me find your brother, if you can bear to look down from the dizzy heights of your superiority.”

The older man did not appear to have taken offence; on the contrary, he contrived a pained smile that, oddly, reminded John of Sherlock.

“Apologies, Doctor; I forgot that your stakes are higher than those of a mere working partner. I have several ideas about the location where he may have been taken to, but I’m not sure rescuing him now would be in his best interest.”

John had heard the expression ‘a mounting tide of anger’, but he never realised it was a real feeling until now: his blood rose so quickly it was like being submerged by a wall of water and fire.

“Wait, what? You want to risk your brother’s life to solve a case, alleging that you know what’s best for him?”

“Don’t be melodramatic, my dear chap; I know my little brother and he would never miss the slightest chance to prove he’s cleverer than all of us.”

“I’m most definitely not your _dear chap_ , sir, and I couldn’t possibly care less what you know or don’t know, not if it means letting Sherlock stay one minute longer than necessary in the hands of a lunatic criminal!”

Mycroft gave him a dispassionate look, but he did neither flinch nor seem moved by John’s rage. He was calculating, like the cool, practised client of a betting establishment.

“There is this _group_ of people that Sherlock employs from time to time; street urchins, homeless mainly, but also peddlers of various merchandise; I’ve given Gregory, I mean Inspector Lestrade, a handful of names and locations; I am pretty certain we will obtain the information that we require within a very short time. I will leave it into your capable hands, Doctor, and it will be your decision to make.”

John’s eyes widened in surprise, as he’d not expected the other man to surrender so easily; he also had not known about Sherlock’s helpers, but he guessed it had not been an intentional omission on his friend’s part; he probably thought there would have been sufficient time for this confession and John fervently hoped he had been right.

“Let it be so, sir; I don’t think I will be capable of spending an entire night inside this flat without knowing what fate has befallen your brother.”

 

“A babe of the abyss,” the man whispered close to Sherlock’s ear, and the gust of that warm breath repelled the young man so that he felt like retching.

After the brief respite of freedom, he had been forced down on carved mahogany chair, his arms and legs strapped to it, like a man waiting to be given electroshock therapy.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replied, trying to keep his voice steady.

“The chasm between the real and the unreal, where all things are possible: that’s the abyss. All things exist inside the chasm and all is possible, but since there is no meaning, all these _impressions_ are in fact insane delusions. Does this remind you of something, Mr Holmes?”

A tremor started deep inside the detective’s bowels and he bit down on his lip, hard, to keep it at bay.

“The act of intercourse with another lost soul will bring the disciple closer to the brink and it’s only then that his personality will disintegrate. The crossing is the most perilous of operations, but success will grant you eternal life.”

“That’s a blatant lie; life has a beginning and an end; you can’t cheat science.”

The man laughed; a raucous cackle that echoed in the cool emptiness of the temple.

“Always trying to convince yourself you are a man of logic and reason, not bound by fears, lust or other emotions. What an egregious liar you are, my dear, and yet you are an innocent, a babe in a wood or, in our case, on the brink of an abyss,”

“Why am I here?” the detective asked, sensing his own fear as it crouched beast-like in the recesses of his mind.

“I wanted to conduct a little experiment… you are a great admirer of those, or so I have been told. And after what happened at the séance, I feel ever more drawn to you, my delectable acolyte.”

The man’s tones became softer and more hypnotic and Sherlock had to struggle to keep his eyes open. Despite the terror strangling his insides, he was being drawn into a liquid darkness that promised knowledge and experience: the two deities he pursued and fled from in equal measure.

What kept him awake was the anticipated horror of a skin other than John's touching him and the mystery of the identity of his abductor.

“You are fighting your own impulses,” the latter said, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “I will have to convince you in a more devious manner, I see.”

At that, a strong hand closed around his throat and pressed a point that soon made Sherlock see double; the starred dome above him shook and precipitated in the void like Icarus then it was gone, taking the whole world with it.

 

Billy Wiggins was a scrap of humanity, with large brown eyes and skin as white as bleached paper and seemingly as fragile.

He could have been Sherlock, if the detective had been born on the wrong side of the tracks and forced to earn his keep by the use of his wits and God knows what else.

Lestrade had found him in his new abode – him, and a dozen other such unfortunate kids – inside a disused carriage on a neglected section of the Liverpool Train Station.

As the light of the Yarder’s torch illuminated the interior of that makeshift bedroom, a swarm of limbs thrashed and surged, akin to a pack of rats infesting the guts of a sinking ship.

“I’m here in the name of Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade shouted, and out of the chaos of screeching voices and open mouths, emerged the tall, gangly figure of a pubescent youth; he cleared his throat and it must have been a sign, because the cacophony ceased there and then.

“The guv’nor would not send a member of the fuzz,” the boy grumbled, thus proving his admiration for detective stories of transatlantic origin.

“He’s been taken and we need your help to find him,” the Inspector replied, using the direct approach that Mycroft had advised.

“Alright then,” was the mumbled reply. “Give us some time to ask around, but please beat it now and come back in, say, an hour. Last thing I need is some bobby cramping my style.”

“I will come back with John Watson; he’s Sherlock’s assistant, just so you know,” Lestrade explained, again upon his partner’s instruction. The thing we do for love and peace of mind, he sighed inwardly. That he should be given orders by a street urchin, he, a Scotland Yard inspector and all.

“Oh, he’s found hisself a living and breathing skull at last,” the boy chuckled and, rolling his shoulders like a trained boxer, he disappeared among the carcasses of abandoned trains.

 

Sherlock opened his eyes and in that rapt, endless moment all was radiant and beautiful; he felt that his consciousness had expanded to touch the inner world of realities – that his mind had come into contact with some inner centre of his being. Everything was filled with new Life, Love, Liberty, and Light. He was light too, suspended above his own body looking down at it from peaceful, cloudless heights.

“You are here at last, my dear,” the voice said, and around him the storm was gathering, with ferocious winds and mighty thunderclap.

“What is it that you see?”

“A windy, deserted shore, gigantic waves, and a boat about to capsize… and someone, in the water, trying to... desperate to, but no, there’s no hope, no hope, no hope,” the detective repeated, on the verge of tears.

A hand caressed his hair and he leaned closer to it, until he smelled the scent of wrongness emanating from that cool skin.

“What else?”

Despite the clutch of cruel fingers twisting his entrails, he couldn’t stay the images unfolding in front of his eyes, nor could he cease describing them.

“A field, vast and yellowed by the heat of summer and, no, no, I don’t want to see anymore,” he screamed, tears now overflowing, heart booming in frantic percussion.

“Feel it then; it’s all you have to do, my dear, let yourself feel it.”

“No, please, no,” he shouted, but the terror and excitement of the memory were overcoming his defences and he heard the blows, saw the blood, heard the screams.

“Please, please,” he wailed and as the man’s hand undid the buttons of the detective’s shirt, slowly but inexorably, Sherlock felt the blackness approach again and submerge him.

This time, he hoped it was for good.

“John,” he murmured, and what he meant was _goodbye._

 

When Lestrade returned with John, Wiggins was waiting for them outside his refuge. He was eating fried cod from a brown paper wrap with a smug expression on his famished face.

“John Watson,” the doctor said quickly, like he couldn’t utter a single platitude before he knew what had happened to Sherlock.

“Ah, so you are his new skull,” the boy replied, sizing up the man in front of him like he would have a perspective victim before filching their purse.

“Your name is Billy, isn’t it? The Inspector here says you can tell us where Mr Holmes has been taken.”

Wiggins had spent his entire life on the streets and he could tell a man at the end of his tether when he saw him; if he’d ever intended to keep John dangling, his instinct told him it would be a dangerous proposition.

“I asked around… the boys what beg ‘bout the station, like. Them big cars stop just in front and all the nobs get out and if you give ‘em a hand with them bags,” he explained, but John cut him short.

“Where is he?” he demanded.

“They saw a nob what looked like the guv’nor pulled and pushed inside the Great,” Billy replied, munching a potato chip.

“Where?” the doctor repeated, with more than a tinge of exasperation.

 “The Great Eastern Hotel,” Lestrade explained. “Let’s go, Watson,” he added, and placed a few coins in Billy’s oil-smeared hand.

 

“You said you were acting as a civilian, in this instance,” John told the Inspector, after they had been let in by a harried-looking hotel receptionist. Lestrade had flashed his badge, which did not tally with his previous statement of non-officialdom.

“You look like you can’t stand wasting a single minute,” he replied, simply.

The more he knew of Lestrade, the better John liked him, which begged the question of what he was doing with Mycroft Holmes, but that and other queries, would have to wait for a less trying moment.

“There is a temple hidden inside here; we were called once to investigate a case of poisoning. Nothing came of it, but I always suspected the criminal responsible for the so-called ceremonies of initiation was not among the people we interrogated.”

“The power behind the throne,” John murmured, as they ascended the first of two staircases leading to a golden portal. When they reached it, it was not locked.

When they entered they were greeted by the intense reek of extinguished candles and if hadn’t been for Lestrade’s torch, they would have been in complete darkness.

The beam of light showed snatches of marble columns and carved mahogany chairs and even the imposing pipes of an organ.

“Sherlock,” John shouted, but there was no reply, only silence.

They searched the place as best as they could, and when it seemed clear that the detective wasn’t there, the Inspector stepped on a loose tile and nearly tumbled to the floor; they heard the squeaking of hinges as a panel turned and on a platform stood a chair in the shape of a throne; on it, Sherlock’s body lay sprawled, his garments half-torn, half-undone, his lids as pale and still as shells.

“No, no, no,” John screamed and, as the Inspector illuminated the sad spectacle, he launched himself on his lover to ascertain whether he was still living.

The skin was cold and clammy, which was a good sign, but the pulse, when he found it, was slow and irregular. He chose to ignore the scratches and bruises marring the boy’s chest and throat and concentrated on observing the pupils and the other vitals. His breathing was indiscernible.

“He’s been drugged,” he muttered; he wanted to kill the person responsible for this desecration and had that creature been present, he wouldn’t have hesitated to do just that. As it was, an ambulance car was needed, but not the hospital, he thought. Sherlock would not want to languish among other patients; besides, he was a doctor and could take care of the most precious thing in his life better than any other physician.

Before he could say anything, Lestrade had already gone to look for a telephone, leaving him alone with the detective.

John took off his coat and used it as a blanket, trying to warm the frigid skin of his darling friend.

“My love,” he whispered, kissing the sweat-soaked curls that brushed the boy’s forehead.

After a while, Sherlock’s breathing became more evident; his chest now rose and fell minutely and with that, pain and consciousness returned.

“No, please, no,” came the broken plea.

“I’m here darling; it’s over, I’m here,” John said, tenderly.

“John,” whispered the young man, trying to open his eyes.

“Don’t move; keep your eyes closed, my dear. Any additional stimuli could be armful and I’d rather not risk it.”

“Filth, filth” the detective repeated, his face crumpled in disgust.

Before John could reply, Lestrade burst in, bringing with him a group of people carrying gasp lamps, jugs of water and a stretcher.

“Let’s get you home, my dear,” John murmured in his lover’s ear, but at that very moment Sherlock opened his eyes, and the look in them, lost, sickened and terrified, was never to leave the doctor’s memory till the day he died.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you guys for commenting and leaving kudos! This story is full of twists and turns, so I hope you won't get lost in them; I know that sometimes I do xx


	16. A Cup of Libation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John takes Sherlock home, but the detective is not an easy patient.  
> Who would have guessed?
> 
> There will be sex, some of it mildly S&M, so please mind the tags.

_“The Rite attracted a capacity audience. Upon climbing the five flights of stairs and entering the emptied apartment/office, participants were met by Neuburg and offered a “Cup of Libation.” This was a pleasant-smelling drink containing fruit juice, alcohol, and anhalonium, which is an alkaloid refined from the peyote plant. Anhalonium was legal at that time, and it was one of Crowley’s favorite indulgences for several years_.”

“ _Mescaline: Crowey's Use in a Performance of the "Rites of Euleusis”_

 

* * *

 

“You should rest, my darling,” John said for what seemed like the millionth time that night.

After the ambulance car had taken them home, Sherlock had refused to be carried upstairs on the stretcher, insisting that he could walk, which naturally was not the case. He stumbled over the front door step and after that, he allowed John and Lestrade to help him upstairs.

The Inspector left immediately afterwards and went back to the Hotel to conduct a formal investigation on Sherlock's abduction.

“If I sit down, I will fall asleep; if I do that, there is a strong chance that I will dream and, like Hamlet, I dread those dreams,” the detective argued, pacing up and down John’s bedroom.

“I could administer a light sedative,” the doctor proposed; at this, his friend snorted.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I _want_ to stay awake, that’s the reason why I cannot lie down; that will prevent me from falling asleep.”

“You _have_ to lie down, my dear. Please do as I say or I will have to take you to a hospital. I should have taken you anyway, since we don’t even know which substances you were given or what he did...”

The detective stopped in his tracks and with his waxen complexion, red-rimmed eyes and tangled hair, he looked almost like a savage.

“Once again, John, _he_ did not to do anything! I hurt myself to stay conscious and as for the drugs, I told you what I think: based on my extensive knowledge of illegal substances, I’d say mescaline; in fact, I am absolutely positive about it.”

“What? I’ve never heard of it.”

“He made me drink what he called a ‘cup of libation’ and it smelled like bad apples and laudanum; that was certainly anhalonium, which is an alkaloid. It causes hallucinations and an altered sense of time and self-awareness; the visions can happen both with open and closed eyes. In my case, it was the former,” Sherlock explained, pulling at his curls and resuming his vicious pacing.

“Would you mind telling me what these visions were?”

“Yes, of course I mind! Didn’t I just tell you that I don’t want to fall asleep because…oh damnation!” the younger man shouted, holding his stomach and doubling up.

John took him in his arms just as he was falling to his knees.

“Help me to the wash-room. I’m going to be sick,” Sherlock panted; his face had acquired a greenish tinge and he was drenched in sweat.

 

Later, after his stomach was emptied of everything but bile, the detective sat on the tiled floor, his back against the bathtub, hollow-eyed and shivering.

John had tried to carry him to bed, but he had refused to be moved; covered up with a blanket, Sherlock felt as if his bones were going to break at the least impact with reality.

Next to him, his friend was bristling with rage and uncertainty, exhausted by that never-ending day, which had hit him with the revelation about his past lover and pummelled him with the abduction of his present, infinitely more beloved one.

“I didn’t know what to do,” John said, sounding forlorn. “I stood in the middle of your room, among your things, and could not think a single thought except for wanting you back here with me. And now that you are here, it seems that I’m utterly useless to you.”

A fragile, translucent hand wriggled out of the covers to join his lover’s rougher one in a tentative caress. Their fingers intertwined and something broke in Sherlock’s chest: down went the defences he had erected to protect himself from the danger of his own memories, and he fell to pieces in John’s arms, trembling and sighing as he tried to contain the tears.

No words were exchanged, not a single one, but an understanding passed between them that the explanations would come when the time was right.

When the storm quietened a little, John took his stupefied lover in his arms and – finally – to his bed.

Exhausted, the detective fell asleep as soon as his head met the pillow; it took his friend a while longer, as every time his eyes closed he saw the Packard speed away, taking Sherlock from him.

 

“Please, please,” the pleading words broke through sleep's frail veil and, in a moment, John was fully awake.

Curled up by his side was his naked, writhing lover; in the light of day, the bruises and scratches on his skin stood out like a lurid testament to the horrors of the previous night.

“Wake up, my darling, wake up,” he said, loud enough to pluck Sherlock from his nightmares; after a few more tries, he did obtain the desired effect; what he had not anticipated was his friend clinging to him, pressing his face in the hollow of John’s throat like he wanted to take refuge in there and never see the light again.

“You need to drink or you’ll be dehydrated; let me go and see if I can fix you a bowl of chicken broth,” the doctor said, after having spent long minutes coaxing Sherlock into lying still and breathing deeply.

“My throat hurts,” the detective rasped.

“I know, dear; it’s only to be expected, after all you went through.”

“I don’t want you to treat me like I’m broken.”

It was said in such a hoarse yet defiant tone that John was at risk of being undone by tenderness; he kissed the chapped lips until they were amaranth red, caressed down the lean, warm body and murmured vague promises on salty skin.

“We’ll talk after you’ve had something to eat,” he concluded and got up without looking at Sherlock again, for fear he wouldn’t be able to leave the bed.

Mrs Hudson had let herself into the flat as they were asleep and left a pot of stew on the stove; John prepared the tea and, after a brief interlude in the wash-room, brought a laden tray back to his lodging.

Surprisingly, Sherlock didn't need to be cajoled: he swallowed spoonful after spoonful of broth with the forbearance of a martyr.

Lestrade rang and informed them that he had interrogated the hotel manager, but as he’d predicted the owners would be hard to find; the operation was like a Russian doll or an onion: peel away one layer and would always be another underneath, and then another and another, ad infinitum.

The only clue was the man nicknamed The Beast, but as far as the Yard knew, Mr Crowley had been away for years, having funded his own temple in the south of Italy.

“Italy again,” John remarked, as he put the receiver down.

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” said Sherlock; he was wearing a blanket over his dressing gown and a scarf around his throat to cover up his bruises.

“Coincidences are for stolid, untrained minds. There is always a method in what appears to be madness. The séances, the visions, the drugs, the photos: everything brings us to the same place. You remember Rolfe’s brother, the way he antagonised you by treating me with contempt? The same happened with Masson Fox and again with Moriarty.”

“They wrongly assumed you were vulnerable.”

“Or perhaps it was all part of a plan to instigate a certain kind of relationship between us, one that would make me a victim of my own subconscious, turn me into a more… malleable adversary.”

John’s eyes widened and his hands balled into fists.

“But why would they do that?”

“Because Maundy Gregory was right; a cluster of spiders, remember?”

“Yes, but I don’t see the connection between this insane plan and Rolfe’s death.”

“I don’t either, not completely, at least. But what I am certain of is that they wanted me to reveal my weakness and for you to be the cause of my downfall.”

The blond man felt a burning desire to punch someone or something, but he tried to master it by preparing another pot of tea.

“Rolfe’s manuscript must contain a quantity of dangerous information if they are so determined to stop you from acquiring it,” he commented, as he moved around the kitchen. Sherlock didn’t reply: his eyes were staring into nothingness and his mouth was moving furiously, but no sound came out of it. John left him to it and had almost forgotten his presence, when a scream made him jump.

“This is precisely what he must have done, John! He used to write about real people and their lives under the disguise of fiction. He must have done the same in his last novel, revealing truths that were better left unsaid,” the detective explained, holding onto John like he was afraid the man might disappear.

“Why you, though? Why did Gregory Maundy choose you of all people and how did they know you had something that could be exploited to their advantage?”

The younger man paled and he fingered his neck, brushing over the livid marks underneath the fabric.

“That is what I need to find out, with your help.”

“What, how?”

“I have an idea, but I am sure you won’t like it,” the detective said, smiling brightly for the first time since his ordeal.

 

To say John didn’t like it would have been an understatement of gargantuan proportions.

“I won’t allow you to do that to your body, not after what just happened, or ever!”

Sherlock was glaring at him with the million-watts power of his disapproving eyes.

“It’s either drugs or pain; would you prefer beating me up? I don’t mind what you choose, as long as you do it quickly.”

John wasn’t to be intimidated by his lover’s fury or his perverted logic. According to the detective, there were only these two ways for him to recapture the memories awakened by the mescaline; the fact that he’d wanted to forget them only the night before did not seem to shake him out of his conviction.

“I’m not hurting you, if that’s what you are asking; and I won’t let you do it without me either, so don’t even try suggesting that.”

“We haven’t yet… you could,” the younger man suggested and that was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. John had dreamed and wished to possess his lover in the most intimate of ways and was waiting for the appropriate moment and the perfect situation; that Sherlock would think of using it to unleash a flood of unseemly recollections, it drove him half-mad with anger.

“I’m going out,” he hissed and strode out of the sitting room, only to realise the detective was following him with every intention of not letting him go.

“Outside Baker Street, hidden in the darkness and safe from the clutches of the Law, is that cluster of spiders, John, and these horrid beasts want my sanity; they have every intention of destroying my mind, piece by piece, unravelling everything that I have built, all that I am; that I have offered to you,” Sherlock pleaded, holding John by the arm and digging his fingers in, until his nails turned white.

“I’ll do anything to help you, but I won’t hurt you on purpose, not in cold blood like this,” the doctor replied, breathing in the detective’s smoky scent.

“I could provoke you…”

“That would still be in cold blood, don’t you see? What we do, what we are to each other, is not a game or an instrument to be used whenever you need an answer to your puzzles.  It is the way we come together and if you don’t see that, perhaps I’ve been mistaken from the very start,” John murmured, unable to look Sherlock in the eye.

That bond they had forged was perhaps only in his mind, wishful thinking at best and at worst pure deception.

“No, don’t think that,” Sherlock whispered, kissing his lover’s cheek, softly. “I wasn’t…I’m unused to being in this predicament; no one has ever cared for me the way you,” he continued, but was interrupted by a fierce kiss on the mouth that soon developed teeth and tongue.

Somehow, they ended up on John’s bed again, only this time it was hypnotic and sensual.

Sherlock let his lover do as he pleased, and that turned out to be the slow undressing of the detective’s body, inch by careful inch, first with fingers then with lips and tongue. There were caresses and kisses, languorous and hungry, but the passion was always controlled, always accompanied by tenderness and adoration. They did not chase release as much as let it bloom and unspool: John rolled on top of his beloved boy and masturbated him with his own arousal; by that time, they were both so wet with desire no additional lubricant was needed. As if by incantation, they came off together, and when they did, their mouths and hands were joined, a tangle of tongues and fingers that was absolute heaven to both men alike.

“I will kill those spiders, one by one and with my bare hands, if I have to,” John panted, in between breathy kisses to Sherlock’s face and neck.

In reply, the detective moaned and arched his back, asking for more of what his lover was offering. He felt deliciously undone; filled with such a dense mixture of affection and lust he could not tell one from the other; he had been cold ever since that ghastly ordeal and only now a real warmth was enveloping him, as heady as any potion.

“You keep me right,” he confessed later, as John was cleaning him up with a wet flannel. “Without you, I would not have known where to draw the line.”

“Without me, maybe there wouldn’t be a line,” the doctor replied, brushing away the traces of their lovemaking.

“It would be much worse, my dear. I would have used those means you so wisely proscribed. And there wouldn’t have been anyone but my horrid brother to save me from my intemperate tendencies and moods.”

“Let me get you a glass of water.”

“Make it whisky, perhaps?”

John nodded and left the room chuckling.

 

“The water is the most baffling part of my vision; I’m not fond of it and all our holidays were spent at our family estate in the countryside or in London; in my travels, I have always eschewed the sea, whenever possible. Rivers I do not care for either, but they are easier to ignore.”

“This city _is_ on a river, dearest,” John grinned, but his objection was swatted aside like a worthless fly.

“The Thames is part of the landscape, but it does not constitute a hindrance in the same way as water encumbers the inhabitants of Venice.”

“You make it sound as if it were a troublesome relative to be endured; you are basically comparing the Venetian canals to your brother,” John giggled.

“Well, I do see a certain resemblance: cold, invasive and impossible to get rid of,” the detective concurred, lips trembling to hide a smile.

“Perhaps you never liked the water because something happened to you, when you were a child and you’ve repressed the memory.”

“I thought about that, but there’s no such incident in my past. As I mentioned, we were never close to the sea or other places where one could swim liberally.”

“Not even a pool?”

“Not even that; I can’t swim; I have always hated the concept of it: giving your body up to the elements, the horrid costumes and the humidity, with my hair, it’s not,” he tried to explain, but it was getting harder, what with John’s laughing until he was in tears.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor gasped, wiping his eyes. “I was imagining you as a child, scoffing and trying to tame your curls after a swim in the sea. I would give much to witness that. I bet you’d be the loveliest of sea creatures,” he concluded, kissing his lover’s pouting lips.

“You are not taking me seriously,” the latter complained, returning the kiss.

“I’ll take you every way you let me.”

“Every way?” Sherlock flirted, moving closer to his lover.

“We should be trying to solve the case,” John replied, but did not pull back.

“You won’t change your behaviour towards me just because of one unfortunate accident, will you?” the younger man asked, baring his throat in an act of sheer surrender.

John pinned Sherlock’s hands to the headboard and bit the curve between neck and shoulder.

“I won’t let any intruder come between us, in bed or elsewhere, if that’s what you are asking.”

“Bite me again,” Sherlock begged, letting his legs fall open so that John could kneel between them.

His pleas were answered with another nip on the delicate skin behind his ear.

“More,” he moaned, and his lover grabbed a handful of buttock, kneading and pinching it.

“You are mine,” John husked, swatting the reddened skin he’d been playing with.

“Yes!”

“This,” the blond man growled, pinching the other buttock then spanking it; “this belongs to me, only to me.”

“Yes,” the detective repeated, as his eyes rolled back into his head.

He was getting lost again inside the labyrinth of pleasure, but this time he didn’t resist the images that were starting to form inside his mind; it was no longer John slapping his skin, but the waves. He saw the little boat again, its side painted in vivid colours; he saw the boy running away from it, trying to escape; it was all in vain, as the man held him down and hit him. Thwack! The blows descended on the boy’s face, his chest, his back, his legs. Thwack! And Sherlock couldn’t do anything; he just stood there and stared. Then the man looked up and saw him; his face was twisted with rage and something else, something passionate and Sherlock recognised it in himself; he knew what it was: he was excited beyond reason and decency, so aroused that his undergarments were soiled with it.

He wanted a hand to hurt him, wanted to feel it on his skin as it burnt and bruised; craved it so much that he could not, would never allow it, lest it gobbled him down till were was nothing left but that obscene desire.

“Yours, I’m yours,” he screamed and when he returned to himself, John was sucking the very life out of him.

“Oh yes, oh my God,” mumbled the doctor, as he licked his lover clean. “My darling, magnificent boy.”

“I saw it John, I saw what happened; I saw the man’s face,” Sherlock croaked, caressing the blonde, soaked hair. “It was him; it was Corvo!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, commenting and leaving kudos! 
> 
> Next: the plot thickens.


	17. The White Vampire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has a Eureka moment and John stumbles upon someone who could be trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: William Money (I kid you not) Hardinge was a homosexual poet and novelist. During his time at the Balliol College, Oxford, he gained the nickname of the 'Balliol Bugger' (sort of the town bicycle). He had a controversial relationship with the essayist Walter Pater, who was thus described: ‘a black, white, ingratiatory vampire’. You see what I have done here?

_“For life is but a dream whose shapes return,_

_Some frequently, some seldom, some by night_

_And some by day, some night and day: we learn,_

_The while all change and many vanish quite,_

_In their recurrence with recurrent changes_

_A certain seeming order; where this ranges_

_We count things real; such is memory's might”_

_The City of Dreadful Night (excerpt) – John Thomson_

* * *

 

 

“It was a Sergeant Dimmock, Lestrade’s subordinate. He said Ms Redfern has awakened from her coma. They have not talked to her yet. If we leave now, we could be present when they question her,” John suggested.

Sherlock was reading the newspaper, or at least pretending to, with a mulish expression that didn’t bode well for the day to come.

John was used to it; in his line of work, it was far from uncommon that after unburdening their soul, patients would keep their distance, and at times even behave inimically.

He understood that his companion needed to rebuild part of his boundaries and – most of all – reaffirm that he was in full control of his thoughts and emotions.

After the revelation of the previous day, Sherlock had refused to expound his recollections; he had not answered any of John’s questions and he’d relocated to his sanctum where, the doctor suspected, he’d been conferring with his skull rather than talk to his living and breathing colleague and lover.

They had not slept in the same bed and, after a silent, tense breakfast, the telephone had rang and Sherlock had ignored it.

“There is no pressing need for us to hear what Ms Redfern has to say. We know what she allegedly _saw_ , if that was the case, which I doubt, since I don’t believe in _visions_. You said it yourself that it's all codswallop, all this believing in ghosts and the like. It therefore follows that it wasn’t a vision, but rather a fact that had been previously relayed to her and that she forgot or didn’t pay due attention to or that she misplaced in her memory; because these things _seem_ _to happen_ , as we both know,” Sherlock ranted, his face as acid and greenish as lime.

“What about the culprit then; someone must have knocked her on the head with every intention of putting her permanently out of commission: are we letting this criminal get away with it?”

“No, John, we are doing nothing of the sort; in the spirit of full disclosure, this will be our line of conduct toward the scoundrels responsible for my... accident. They won’t escape capture, but at the moment, we have more immediate concerns.”

John stared at his friend, incredulous.

“What could be more important than bringing these criminal to justice? I know that you… that we have been hired in order to find Rolfe’s manuscript, but surely now our priority must be…”

“Must be what, John? Running round the city chasing the muscle when we should be  looking for the brains? The Baker Street irregulars could help, of course, but I do not want to risk the success of our enterprise by rousing our sleeping dogs.”

“The Baker Street who?” John asked, and he had to sit down because he was feeling dizzy.

“You didn’t say, but I’m quite certain Mycroft knows about them and their efficiency. Judging by the location of my imprisonment, I gather you must have met Wiggins. Lovely lad and with a real talent for detection,” Sherlock replied, removing an imaginary speck of dust from his blue silk dressing gown.

The doctor was, by osmosis perhaps, acquiring part of the greenish tinge that affected his friend’s complexion.

“You appear to think that this _Billy_ would be more useful to you than a wounded, ageing doctor. If so, by all means let me know at your earliest convenience and I will try to find an interim occupation,” he hissed.

“Don’t be foolish, John. Wiggins does not have a tenth of your skills; he would not do at all. His age, his disposition… they do not suit,” the detective explained, thus causing his friend’s anger to increase exponentially.

“Are you telling me that if _Billy_ were older and willing to indulge your favoured practices, you would have no qualms about replacing me with him?” he asked, moving closer to the younger man.

Sherlock did not reply, but he became very still, his eyes gazing straight in front of him, unblinking.

“Is that what you meant?” John repeated, inches from his lover’s ear.

“I, you, that is,” the detective muttered then he exhaled a tremulous breath and turned toward his friend: he was wild-eyed and evidently on the verge of a panic attack.

“Come here,” the doctor said, and curled his arm around those angular, frail shoulders. Sherlock immediately sagged against him, letting his head relax and drop against John’s chest.

“I did not mean to demean your importance, my dear,” he murmured, “but the truth is that I am frightened. If my mind can betray me so disastrously, how can I be expected to function normally? How can I trust myself, when even my memories are utterly unreliable? Then there’s my abnormality; this _thing_ that I crave.”

“I crave it too; would you then say that I am abnormal and that I do not lead a fulfilling life because of it?” John asked, tenderly stroking the boy’s curls.

“All I know is that before I was able to control it yet I was only half a man; now that I am whole, the dam has been broken and all the monsters, all those demons that had been crouching in the shadows have rushed in, a veritable plague of locusts,” Sherlock replied, breathing hard trough his nose.

“This case is a feast of collective nouns,” the older man quipped, trying to lighten the mood. “What you are experiencing is not uncommon, my love; you’re undergoing a monumental change in your life, not unlike a paralysed man who has suddenly acquired the use of a dead limb. It is but normal that blood flowing through a previously unused organ will provoke some extremely unpleasant symptoms, some of whose can be rather unpredictable.

“Blood flowing through a previously unused organ?” Sherlock repeated, smirking.

“Unhappy choice of words, I concur,” John agreed, with a grin. “What I meant to say”

“What you meant to say was that I should expect more troublesome memories to resurface and this is why I am the perfect choice for this unusual case.”

“Would you tell me about your memories of Corvo?”

The detective caressed his friend’s hand and inspected it like a foreign object.

“I’m not sure it’s entirely wise, but I do need your help,” he sighed and proceeded to recount the recollection in its entirety.

“How old were you in your hallucination? John enquired, as calmly as he could.

“I could not see myself, but I have the feeling that I was a child too, probably as young as that Constantine Pritchard, considering the height and perspective of vision. At first, I reasoned that I could have superimposed Rolfe’s face to that of another man, but that would not explain the sense of familiarity I derived from seeing that painting in his lodgings at Oscott.”

“The burial of St. William of Norwich; yes, I recall that you seemed perturbed.”

“I concluded it was to do with the boy and not with Rolfe, as I had already seen photographs of his likeness. But I understand now that it wasn’t simply one or the other, but rather the conjunction of the two: Corvo dealing with a boy in a manner that spelt danger to an unsuspecting mind.”

“Yet you do not remember this incident, even after having ‘seen’ it several times.”

“That is why I suggested the possibility of memories being implanted in the mind of a sensitive subject. Only the application of certain parameters allows the phenomenon to tale place; like a fire, it cannot burn without an oxidant. In this instance, a certain flavour of carnality is the trigger; that or a hallucinatory drug mixture.”

Sherlock’s excitement was superseding his fear and that worried John, who suspected his lover might lose himself in the intellectual pleasures of detection and forget that both their lives were at stake.

“Assuming Corvo really did hurt that boy, why would anyone want to bring that incident to light now that the Baron is dead?”

The detective’s face brightened and his eyes shone like a beacon in a sea-storm.

“Oh John, I have been blind! What we consider an unnecessary form of torture, the Church usually sees as a means to obtain redemption. What did Moriarty say? _Sainthood can only be achieved through some admirable feat of endurance:_ these were his words. But what if, instead of the victims, it was a case of the perpetrators being set a test, in order to become part of an inner circle that could then aspire to higher things?”

The doctor shook his head, but he was considering his friend’s words and finding them plausible.

“That church you visited, St. Etheldreda, was won at auction for a pittance, that’s the story, but what if it weren't the actual Catholic order doing the bidding?”

“But I’m sure Fr. Lockhart is honest; I would bet my honour on this!” John said, genuinely upset.

“I’m not disputing your assertion for a moment, my dear. They do need simple and honest souls like Father Lockhart in order to hide their misdeeds. The ‘Divines’ must be a cover for all sort of strange goings-on.”

“Moriarty wasn’t part of it and I am convinced that the man is evil,” the blonde man replied, shuddering.

“The fact he wasn’t part of it suggests he must have taken a singularly sadistic pleasure in changing the nature of the institution into one that completely distorted its original purposes. You have objections,” Sherlock said, staring his lover in the eye.

“Well, yes. If Corvo had been part of it and what you witnessed was his test, how come he was a failed priest, not even allowed into their fold? And why would the Freemasons consort with the Church, when everybody knows they are sworn enemies?”

The detective stood up and took to his new favourite pastime, that of pacing to and from in furious strides.

“As for the latter, we are talking about a new type of religion, one that mixes with magic rituals, sexual persuasion and a thirst for power to conquer the world.”

“The world, no less?” John jested, and the detective looked daggers at him.

“Gregory Maundy is collaborating with the government, John. I suggest you don’t overlook the very real possibility that this cluster of spiders may be plotting to overturn the present state of things in favour of one closer to their wishes. As for the former of your queries, we know that Corvo was a rebel in his own way; that he always swam against the current. I’m still in the dark with regards to the entirety of his obsessions and quirks, but it is clear to me that he loved to dabble, both in his professional and personal life. He may well have tired of complying with the demands placed on him and decided to strike out on his own.”

John considered this and he agreed it was plausible, but he had other doubts.

“What about Masson Fox and Haddon; what about the artists who surrounded Corvo’s world, were they all part of the deception?”

“I suspect the sexual element to be a persuasion tool and a base for blackmail. Take Masson Fox: he said he had to sue a woman who accused him of taking advantage of her young son. And where do we see him next? About to visit an exhibition of lewd photographs of boys! He’s a very wealthy man, and this new order needs money. It also needs artists to produce evidence of these misdeeds; evidence which can be used in a court of Law.”

“But men can love men: this is no longer a crime.”

“Yes, but what if the boys are not of age? This is the blackest of crimes still, and so it should be, when innocence is trampled upon.”

The landscape Sherlock had painted was a bleak, desolate one, but it did not seem as implausible to John as if had been at the start their conversation.

“How can we stop them?”

“Oh, that's simple, my dear John. We have to find Rolfe’s manuscript, in which the incontrovertible proof of this plot is surely exposed with a wealth of dates and names. After all, it’s precisely what we were hired for!”

 

After this sparkling display of his deducting faculties, Sherlock was prevailed upon to eat eggs and bacon for lunch and, finally, to visit Julia Redfern.

They found her propped up against a pile of cushions, her red hair - no longer wavy - had been brushed away from her face so that her aquiline nose seemed even more prominent on her sallow face. Her round grey eyes had lost most of their acuity and appeared veiled as if by gauze.

“Dear Ms Redfern, I’m glad to find you awake. You gave me quite a scare, I can tell you.” John said.

“The Inspector told me it was you who found me; I’m forever in your debt, Doctor Watson.”

“Lestrade told us you did not see your assailant; that you did not hear anyone come in,” Sherlock interjected, without the least courtesy. It should have upset his companion, but the doctor was only relieved that normal service had been resumed.

Julia shook her head minutely, groaning in pain.

“I had barely entered the house; there wasn’t even time to get by bearings when I felt this intense pain at the back of my head and stars in front of my eyes, and down I went, like a swooning Victorian maiden.”

“Why were you there, Ms Redfern? And, if you please, I would like facts not vague notions of ghosts and spirits.”

The woman touched the hem of his cape and closed her eyes, breathing softly through her parted lips.

“I feel your suffering, Mr Holmes,” she whispered after a moment; her voice seemed to come from a vast distance, as cold and deserted as the arctic pole. “I can see it too; it’s a shade of… red. You are running in the woods, you heart is beating strongly in your chest… joy and happiness at first… but then… a shot! And that poor beast lying dead at your feet… not much blood after all, but dead all the same; red, red, red,” she repeated, close to shouting, until she opened her eyes, exhaled a gusty sigh and waited.

John was staring at Sherlock - whose eyes had filled with tears - and fighting the impulse of taking the young man in his arms.

“My dog,” the detective stuttered, “His name was Redbeard. Our gamekeeper was forced to shoot him when he got trapped by a metal spring trap. How could you possibly know? Has my brother told you?”

“I have never met your brother, Mr Holmes. It is simple, really: we carry our past with us like luggage and some of it leaves a trace on what I like to call the ‘aura’. Yes, you may scoff at the word, but I sense that you have comprehended its meaning.”

“And what trace did it leave in Ms Overgaard’s house?” John asked.

The woman closed her eyes and seemed to have fallen asleep, but after a long interval she spoke again, in the same detached tones.

“A tide of destruction is about to befall us and should we fail to stop it, the country we know and love will cease to exist.”

“Have you given Lestrade the list of the participants of the séance?” the detective asked, once she’d returned to herself.

“It is against the rules, as I am certain Mary has already informed you,” she replied, casting him a glance that conveyed vastly more than her words had.

“I see. Well, we’ll let you sleep now, but rest assured that we shall find the scoundrel who assaulted you. You can trust us,” Sherlock concluded, placing his hand on hers.

Julia Redfern gave them a tremulous smile that stayed with John for the rest of the day.

 

After the hospital, Sherlock went back to Baker Street, where he’d intended to improve his knowledge of – among other things – hallucinatory drugs, the architecture of St. Etheldreda and the history of martyrdom. John had made him promise that he would not leave the house until his companion was back and, most importantly, that he would not imbibe, inhale or inject any harmful substance. The detective had sniffed haughtily, embarking on a tirade about the real meaning of words and the paramount importance of research that was only cut short by the arrival of his cab.

John had telephoned Stamford and they had agreed to meet for tea at the Lyons near St.  Paul’s. They spent a nice hour chatting pleasantly about Mike’s family, his work at the hospital and of common acquaintances that John had lost sight of. He was in need of some form of light-hearted distraction and his friend was the best cure for this particular ailment.

The blond man was still smiling to himself as he walked along Paternoster Row in the direction of Blackfriars. He turned into a deserted Carter Lane and came upon a tobacconist; he stopped to purchase the brand of cigarettes Sherlock favoured and was about to reach his destination when all of a sudden, out of a side alley, a young boy came upon him at great speed, ending up in his arms.

“My sincerest apologies, Sir,” the youth said. He was as tall as Sherlock and as lean, but he had wavy auburn hair and an even whiter skin, dotted with freckles. His smile was the best item of a remarkable face: it was toothy, dazzling white and thoroughly disarming. His skin smelled of bergamot and something sweetish, like tuberose.

“No damage was done, dear chap. But what is the matter, if I may ask?”

The boy blushed in a most becoming way, scratching the back of his head with evident embarrassment.

“I was smoking a cigarette in the back alley by The Apothecary Society, daydreaming as I frequently do and, wouldn’t you believe it, I was approached by a man who wanted me to… how shall I say, provide him with a certain type of service… oh, it’s too absurd, I must have misunderstood.”

John gave him an eloquent look and shook his head.

“I’m pretty sure you were correct in your assumptions. Let me help you find a cab, please. John Watson, at your service,” he said, taking the boy’s hand and shaking it.

“William Hardinge, and I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Not in the least, dear chap. Down from Oxford, I guess; or is it Cambridge?”

“I’m a Balliol man,” the boy replied, a proud note in his deep voice.

“And are you always so distracted or was there a specific reason?” John said, as they walked towards Blackfriars Lane. Near the bridge the traffic was more intense and finding a cab would be a lot easier.

“I do like to live in dreams, sometimes; and have imaginary conversations with the people I admire; I am a poet, you see.”

John nodded and smiled.

“Perhaps it would be preferable not to do so in the midst of London, don’t you think?”

The boy laughed happily; he had a full bodied laugh that reminded John of dense, melted chocolate.

“Yes, I am sure you are right. You know, I hope I don’t sound too forward, but I do have another day to spend in London and I wouldn’t mind a companion to keep me out of trouble,” he said, looking at John's lips. He had cornflower blue eyes as pure as a July sky. In another life, the doctor would have been sorely tempted, but in this one, he could only think of raven hair and iridescent eyes.

Before he could reply, the boy had hailed a cab.

“This is my card, if you ever need to find me,” he said, suddenly looking much older than his age. John took the small piece of paper, put it in his pocket without a single glance and walked towards the train station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Sherlock goes mental with jealousy. Who would have thunk it?
> 
> Thanks for reading and leaving kudos and comments. I am greatly enjoying this story and I hope you are too.


	18. Epithalamion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is just a tiny bit jealous (irony), but John always finds a way to calm him down...  
> An interlude of peace before the storm.
> 
> Sexy times, so please mind the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: an epithalamion is a poem composed to celebrate a marriage, usually containing suggestive language and innuendo.
> 
> Note 2: The Book of Lies was written by English occultist and teacher Aleister Crowley (using the pen name of Frater Perdurabo) and first published in 1912 or 1913.

_“Amor_ _has put his weapons by and will keep holiday. He was bidden go without apparel, that none might be wounded by his bow and arrows. But take care! In truth he is none the less armed than usual, though he be all unclad”_

_Marius the Epicurean (excerpt) – Walter Pater_

 

* * *

 

John had never owned a dog because – despite what people assumed when they made his acquaintance – he wasn’t really a dog person.

He didn’t like the smell and their canine obedience irritated him.

Thus, he was completely unprepared for the assault he was about to undergo inside his own home at Baker Street.

When he opened the door, the flat was in silence: aside from the wood crackling in the hearth and the faraway noises of the London traffic, there was only blissful peace.

He concluded that Sherlock must have been immured within his sanctum, busy with his researches; this arrangement allowed John to read the newspaper in solitude with the pleasing accompaniment of a glass of sherry.

Nearly an hour passed in this civilised way, when the detective made his theatrical entrance brandishing a volume entitled The Book of Lies whose author was someone named Frater Perdurabo.

“This vile treatise is specifically dedicated to the so-called ‘Babes of the Abyss’ and it’s rife with sexual innuendo. Listen to this: ‘The Way to Succeed—and the Way to Suck Eggs’. Succeed, as in suck seed, you see? It’s the title of chapter sixty-nine, how pedestrian!” he protested, but stopped abruptly once he was within John’s scenting distance.

“Bergamot and tuberose?” he asked, bending down to sniff the inside of his friend’s shirt collar. “When did you start using… or was it Stamford? No, stupid, he only ever stinks of carbolic soap. Who was it?”

John would have laughed if he had not been wary of Sherlock’s temper. He took the young man’s hand and tugged forcefully, causing him to lose his balance and collapse on the sofa next to him with a thump.

“I helped save a young man from the clutches of an assailant, near St. Paul’s. I walked with him until we found a cab then I came home.”

“How young was this young man and how come you reek of him?”

“Oh, I don’t know… your age, perhaps a tad younger. He was running and didn’t see me coming out of the shop; yes, by the way, I got your cigarettes; here,” John explained, extracting a bundle from his pocket; with it, a piece of cream-coloured paper fluttered out and onto the floor.

Sherlock ignored the cigarettes and grabbed the paper; he read it with blanched lips and glittering eyes.

“William Money Hardinge, an Oxonian, no less. Just the sort you like, with the additional advantage of being a damsel in distress. Was he at all like me? Yes, I imagine he was a similar height and shape; that’s your taste, after all, isn’t it? And he must have caught your attention, as you kept his card. Did he ask you to meet him again? Yes, I can see that he did. Well, don’t let me keep you. It must be boring to have to restrain your impulses and limit them to one person only. And when this person is inexperienced and not so young after all,” he recited in a sarcastic, hysterical manner, while John eyed him with tenderness.

“Are you finished, my darling? Yes, he reminded me of you a little and he was younger; he seemed a pleasant enough chap who was seeking company, but, and this is very important, so kindly pay attention, but I only want you. And not because I met you first or because we share the same proclivities; I love you above everyone and everything because you are mine and I am yours, and it won’t change, not in a million years. I’m flattered by your jealousy, and yes, you are jealous, no use denying it, but you have no reason to be. Ours is a marriage of blood, my love: yours is mixed with mine, for ever.”

By that point, Sherlock was flushed and dazed, and John kissed the contrariety and timidity out of him.

“Besides,” he added, after he’d regained his breath, “I don’t need to be a genius consulting detective to suspect something may not be as it seems. A beautiful youth falling into my arms and demanding my company: I’m not naïve or vain enough to believe in such improbable odds.”

The detective was still licking his lips when the sense of John’s words penetrated the dense, sensual haze of his daydream.

“I wouldn’t say improbable, but it is a rather quaint coincidence, I grant you; especially when we are chasing a band of criminals who would stop at nothing to keep us from finding out the truth of their secret endeavours,” he said, back to his habitual self.

“And I know what you think of coincidences,” John grinned, adding “Why don’t you show me what you have been doing; perhaps I will prove a better interlocutor than your beloved skull?”

Sherlock snorted, but accepted the offer nonetheless.

In his sanctum, the large and shabby mahogany desk was littered with papers, maps and books; the writings belonging to Corvo were carefully stacked in a box, separate from the rest.

“I have been reading about the effects of mescaline, and I was right: the hallucinations are due to it, while one of the principal side effects is nausea and sickness. And Mr Crawley has written several texts that indicate his faction is ready for a new world order in which Christianity is superseded by a skewed form of eroticism. Let’s not forget that the Temple at the Great Eastern is part of his empire.”

“I still don’t understand why they let you go.”

“Their main aim was to trigger my memories and weaken me, the same as they had done at the séance. They never meant to destroy me, only my faculties. There’s one thing I haven’t told you,” Sherlock said, his eyes flitting here and there, but refusing to meet his friend’s.

“That man unbuttoned my shirt and I had the illusion of my limbs being strapped to the chair. But I’m sure they were not, that I was the one who scratched and pinched my own chest and neck, to stay awake. There were traces of skin and blood underneath my nails,” he explained, in one breath.

“But you cannot be completely certain; he may have…oh, hell and damnation! What if he did something to you while you were unconscious? I know that we can’t seek him now, but rest assured that when I find him, he will pay for this,” John growled.

He was standing behind his friend, who was sitting on a dilapidated armchair by his desk; at this point, he sank both his hands in the young man’s curls and rubbed his scalp, like he wanted to soothe the mind contained inside it.

The detective sighed and relaxed into the touch.

“What else have you been doing?” John asked, after a while; he kept at his massage, eliciting a litany of mewling noses from his lover.

“I, oh, mm, yes, look here: this is the layout of St. Etheldreda’s and this, here, is the floor plan of St. Margaret’s.”

John interrupted his ministrations, distracted by what he was seeing.

“What is this line here, departing from the crypt?”

Sherlock’s spine straightened, as it did every time he was struck by the lightning of deduction.

“This, my dear, is what I want to find out. I suspect there was an old tunnel connecting St. Etheldreda’s to the home of the Rector. And you see that St. Margaret’s has an almost identical outline.”

“Is that the St. Margaret’s near the Houses of Parliament?”

“The very one, my dear; and do you know who is the Rector of this benighted establishment? That honour belongs to a Father Carmont of Dalbeattie once a pupil of, you may guess it, the Oscott College.”

John’s head was spinning; another link with Rolfe and a strange, perhaps dangerous connection to their august seat of government.

“We have to tread lightly, my darling. If they ever suspect we are close to finding out their secret, they won’t hesitate to kill us. Even if we ask Scotland Yard to investigate at St. Margaret’s, things may turn ugly before we have found a way of thwarting their plans. ”

The detective nodded, pensively.

“Yes, I’ve reached the same conclusion. We need to steer clear of any association with the Church and devote our efforts to the other branch of their shady ventures. Perhaps you should call on that youth, after all. He may be the pawn that will allow us to checkmate our adversaries.”

“Fairy chess?” John quipped, quoting Masson Fox’s hobby. Sherlock laughed, but he was noticeably worried.

“Yes, of a sort,” he replied.

“Are you certain that this is the way you want to proceed?”

 “After what you said, I think I have nothing to fear,” the young man answered, but there was still a trace of uncertainty in his tone.

“Nothing at all, my dear; but I sense tension in your body, especially here,” John said, resuming his massage, interspersing it with tugs and pulls, so that Sherlock threw his head back and let it rest against his friend’s abdomen; in that position, his throat and torso were presented like a naked offering to the blond man’s gaze. Underneath the loose wrappings of the silk dressing gown, Sherlock’s groin was already stirring, and the detective splayed his legs to accommodate his arousal.

“Tell me about The Book of Lies,” the doctor asked, as one of his hands migrated down to caress the swan-like neck.

“The chapter I told you about was…mm… detailing how to please your companion …mm…orally,” Sherlock muttered; when the hand moved down to his chest and rubbed a nipple, he sobbed.

“And what else?”

“I can’t… mm… can’t,” the detective moaned.

John pulled a fistful of curls and, at the same time, tweaked the nipple, scratching at its underside.

“Oh Christ, yes, yes… while he reciprocates, also…mm…orally…ah,” Sherlock’s entire body arched off the chair as his lover bent down and fisted the silk- clad erection, masturbating the head with the sodden fabric.

“Yes, my love, yes, would you…” John started, but his boy was so desperate for it that he didn’t let him finish. Quick as a ray of light, he turned round and undid John’s trousers and undergarment, until he had a mouthful of dripping cock almost down his throat. They stayed like this for a blissful while: John thrusting and his lover sucking and dribbling, desperate for more.

“My love, let me help,” the doctor whispered, at some point; and he manoeuvred them both so that they ended up on the dusty Persian rug, slotted in such a way that made it possible for John to suckle and nip at his lover’s glans while allowing Sherlock to stuff his mouth and throat to his heart’s delight. 

It was almost too much, trespassing on the boundaries of the human and verging on the animal: he was being possessed by increments, allowed to devour and be consumed in turn. Sherlock had spent most of his life trying to suppress the unfortunate scents and noises that pertained to his bodily functions, yet now he wanted nothing more than lick that bitter salt until it trickled down inside his throat, so that he was filled with it. And he always wanted more: he craved to be taken, to be had in every way, possible and impossible. He should have been ashamed that John’s face was in his groin, inhaling his musk, lapping at his testicles while he, Sherlock, was writhing and wailing, feasting on cock and semen like they were ambrosia.

After an eternity, his efforts were rewarded with a stream of warm ejaculate: he let it spill out of his mouth and paint his face and neck, drinking it as soon as it touched his tongue. He dimly realised he’d spent too, at that John was cleaning him up in the usual way, murmuring endearments against his boy’s sweaty and twitching abdomen.

 

“You are living proof that a superior intelligence was at work when it created the world,” the doctor said, as they lay sprawled on the ancient leather sofa under a heavy blanket whose provenance he was afraid to investigate.

“We are men of science, my dear. This God delusion should not inform our judgement, no matter how tempting it may prove to be.”

John took his lover’s hand and kissed its fingers, one by one.

“I know, darling, but let us examine your case: you are exceedingly attractive, endowed with superlative intelligence and deeply passionate to boot.”

The detective preened visibly at the praise and his already flushed cheeks deepened into bright crimson.

“I am a not an easy man, my dear. And no matter what gifts I possess, they would be nothing if you weren’t here with me, sparking my flame,” he replied, with unusual equanimity.

“Splendid thing,” John murmured, upturning the hand to place a kiss on its palm.

“How did you come to think of St. Margaret’s?” he asked, to prevent a repeat of what had just happened. He had to try and control his appetites, he thought, or they would take over with worrying frequency.

Sherlock’s transition from sensual laxity to aristocratic disdain was seamless and vastly entertaining to this friend.

“You won’t believe it, but I was once _forced_ to attend a function at that Church: a cousin marrying into the Royal family; some distant relative of a Duke or other,” he explained, waving a dismissive hand. “I had to wear the most dreadful attire; the tie alone almost strangled me and not in a pleasant way. To counteract the infinite tediousness of the event, I _roamed_. The upper part of the building was dreary enough, but the crypt was fascinating. I was just about to get to the best part – a door hidden behind a painted screen – when Mycroft came upon me like an unpleasant smell and forced me to return to the ceremony. That was the last family event I participated in and, as much as I loathed every dull minute of it, at least it served some purpose.”

“Poor Mycroft,” John chuckled, “Charged with the impossible task of taming the untameable. Not that he should make a job of it, my dear; never tamper with a thoroughbred, or so I have been told.”

“An equine comparison; I’m not sure I should be flattered.”

John entwined their fingers.

“Oh, I’m sure your capacity for flattery is almost fathomless.”

The detective threw his head back and laughed; he looked so young and happy John would have sold the world to keep him that way.

“You should telephone Mr. Hardinge and invite him to luncheon,” Sherlock whispered, his gaze fixed to the ceiling.

The only light came from the gas lamp on the desk, and as the afternoon had faded into evening, the room was painted with long shadows, fingers of darkness that caressed the various paraphernalia, enriching them with an added layer of mystery.

“Wouldn’t it appear suspicious?”

“He’s an attractive boy and he must be aware of his charms and unafraid to put them to the test. He will consider it only natural that you’d want to see him again.”

John squeezed his friend’s hand, caressing the fragile wrists with insistent circular motions.

“I won’t feign a romantic motive; it would be treacherous for his part and impossible to sustain for mine.”

“Are you afraid to fall into temptation? The flesh is weak, after all is said and done,” the detective observed, his voice deep and dark.

“I can’t blame you for drawing these conclusions: no sooner had we met that I had my hands on you. But that is not who I usually am, my love. I may admire beauty, but it doesn’t quicken my blood or spur me into action like you did and do. I’m not proud of the liaisons I entertained while at the front, but when you are facing death, passion seems to be the only counteracting force; no, not seems, but rather it _is_ the only antidote.”

Sherlock inched closer, blindly kissing John’s cheek and the side of his neck.

“I envy your experience,” he murmured.

“And I your innocence, so we are quits,” replied the older man.

“What you said before... that ours is a marriage of blood,” Sherlock ventured, but then his voice broke.

“When this case is over, if you will do me the honour,” John said, but he found that he too couldn’t continue, so he took his boy in his arms, sealing his mouth with a sensuous, tender kiss.

 

Prompted by Sherlock, John made contact with William Hardinge; inspecting the card for the first time, he saw that the boy was staying at a reputable boarding house in Bloomsbury. He secretly hoped that he wouldn’t be there when he telephoned, but the lady who answered immediately disabused his hopes.

The tenor voice sounded clear as a bell at the other end, and was more than glad to accept an invitation to lunch at a ‘picturesque’ little restaurant in Duke’s Road just off the Euston Road, a location which, he hoped, would be convenient for both of them. John said all the things that were expected of a man eager for friendship and when he put the receiver down, the look on Sherlock’s face was a study in manufactured indifference.

“Let me take you out to dinner; as long as it’s not Pagani’s, we should be safe,” he joked.

This time, they enjoyed a peaceful supper at a dimly lit, unpretentious Italian trattoria whose owner - a robust specimen named Angelo, with a leonine head and forearms as wide as Sherlock’s calves – treated them like royalty.

“I helped him once when he was involved in a case of food poisoning,” the detective explained.

“He was innocent, I gather.”

“His sous-chef did it; his wife was in love with Angelo and he was insane with jealousy.”

“Poor sod,” John observed and before Sherlock could open his mouth, he added “I’m glad you are on the side of the angels.”

“It doesn’t mean I am one of them.”

“Perhaps an impish one, like cupid, with bows and arrows and a liking for honey,” the doctor suggested, smiling.

“Cupid was stung by bees as he was trying to steal it from their hive,” the detective replied, feigning annoyance.

“Yes,” John mused, regarding his friend with deep love and admiration, “I can see a definite resemblance.”

They slowly walked home, enveloped in a pleasant haze of wine and affection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> St. Margaret doesn't have a crypt or a secret tunnel. However there is such a tunnel connecting the Houses of Parliament to Portcullis House and to the Westminster Tube station.


	19. The Jaded Epicurean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John lunches with William, while Sherlock gets into trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: William Hardinge was Pater's lover and because of him the writer nearly lost his post at Oxford University.
> 
> Note 2: I have no idea what Hardinge looked like, but a friend of Pater's was the model for Chatterton in this painting, so I imagined William to look like this  
> 

_“The utterance of the ‘jaded Epicurean’, as of the strong young man in all the freshness of thought and feeling, fascinated by the notion of raising his life to the level of a daring theory, while, in the first genial heat of existence, the beauty of the physical world strikes potently upon his wide-open, unwearied senses. He discovers a great new poem every spring, with a hundred delightful things he too has felt, but which have never been expressed, or at least never so truly, before.”_

_Marius the Epicurean (excerpt) – Walter Pater_

* * *

 

The restaurant turned out to be a French place in Woburn Walk, a jolly little alley tucked behind St. Pancras Church; it was a quaint corner of London that eschewed any form of modernity in favour of a more Dickensian flavour.

William Hardinge was even handsomer than he’d seemed the day before: the contrast between the vibrant auburn hair and the Delft blue eyes was startling, and so was the paleness of his skin, so white that John felt it would shine into the darkness.

Despite his considerable beauty, he didn’t seem too concerned about his outward appearance, wearing shabby clothes and showing fingers still marked from the ink he'd probably used to write his poetry.

All in all, John mused, he was a lovely youth, much too perfect to be true.

During the first course, he learnt that William was nineteen, that his family hailed from Shropshire and that he idolised Pater, Hopkins and Wilde, but had no interest in modern poetry, such as the one that had been written during and about the War.

“I don’t wish to sound passé, Dr. Watson, but there is no real beauty in that sort of violence. It’s mechanised slaughter, no different from the factory production of cheap sausages. The true essence of man dictates that we should concern us with the great issues of existence, such as why we are here and whether a deity really is at the centre of it all. Then there’s the grand theme of love,” the boy stated, and his enthusiasm coloured his cheek a deeper shade of pale.

“I see your point, Mr Hardinge,” John started.

“William, if you please.”

 “Alright, William, I see your point, but as a man and soldier who has fought for his country, I suppose it behoves me to defend the poetry you so despise. You shouldn’t detach art from the everyday lest you reduce it to a vapid exercise in style without substance.”

The boy attacked a forkful of shepherd’s pie and washed it down with red wine before replying. He had a robust appetite for such a waifish constitution, the blond man remarked. It made him think of Sherlock and his desultory eating habits with such nostalgia he almost excused himself and left. His darling boy would probably be picking at a slice of toasted bread smeared with honey while contemplating a distasteful sample through his microscope. Not capable of taking care of himself properly, not without a strong hand to guide him, John considered, and the image filled him with immense joy and faith in their future as a married couple.

“I don’t suggest anything of the sort, Doctor. What I mean is that we artists should dig deeper to find the immortal themes that link us to our ancestors and venture out, into the unknown, daring what has never been tried before.”

“It sounds awfully modern; what is it that you mean exactly?”

The boy bent his head, whispering his next words.

“I mean that perhaps the old order as we know it is about to crumble and a scintillating new one will replace it; a world where religion is no longer disunited from the ideals of pleasure and beauty, and where sacrifice is not the ultimate objective, but merely a source of delight on the way to everlasting power.”

John stared intently in those cornflower eyes and wondered if their brightness was entirely natural; he started to suspect the influence of a stimulant and laudanum was the chief suspect. In his youth, he’d met a boy who'd indulged in the substance that had been such a favourite of the Pre-Raphaelites, and he’d had the same exaggerated enthusiasm and overly bright eyes.

“Well, it is fascinating, but I doubt poetry can go as far as that. I’m sure it can rouse minds and consciences, but you need money and access to power if you want to change the world,” he said, trying to sound as smug as Sherlock would have, in his place.

William did not seem discouraged; in fact, he smiled to himself like he was hiding a precious secret.

“That’s because you think of poetry as a luxury, but it isn’t,” he stated, proudly.

John decided it was time to direct the conversation in the direction he wanted.

“I also think it was a rather strange coincidence that we met the way we did. A good friend of mine always says coincidences do not exist.”

The boy had raised his glass to drink, but stopped mid-gesture.

“And what does he suggest we call them instead?” he asked, with fixed, unblinking eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know, contrivances, I suppose,” the blond man replied, returning the stare.

There was a moment of tense silence finally broken by the boy’s laughter.

“There goes my big theatrical moment!”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth instead?” John asked, offering him a cigarette.

“I knew at which hospital Julia Redfern was staying – don’t ask me how, please – so I waited, hoping that sooner or later you would make an appearance. I was lucky, and after you left, I followed you and waited for the right moment to force an encounter that would put me in your debt. The thing is, my friend, that I don’t have any money to pay the great detective Sherlock Holmes, but I was hoping against hope that you would take pity on me,” he explained, his flushed face looking the very picture of beauty in peril.

“Why don’t you tell me everything, from the start?”

“Not here,” the boy murmured.

 

“The caryatids are made of terracotta, such a poor substitute for the real thing,” William exclaimed, contemplating the architecture of St. Pancras Church. John’s only memory of that building was of the crypt being utilised as an air-raid shelter during the War; he’d never cared much about its Greek style, which he found out of place in foggy, smoky London.

“Shall we go inside?” he proposed, hoping for a quiet place to continue the conversation.

“Hardly the most appropriate place to discuss my predicament, and yet at the same time, rather apt,” the boy replied, rubbing his feminine hands together for warmth.

Inside, the church was cold and empty.

They sat on a pew and regarded the colonnaded structure, cast iron alternating with marble, with mild dislike.

“I hoped to entice you into convincing Mr Holmes to take on my case,” William said, inching closer to his companion. John immediately moved away, glaring at the boy in his most disapproving way.

“I’m not buying whatever you are selling, sir, so kindly desist from this despicable course of action.”

The boy blushed and covered his face with his hands.

“I’m sorry; please, please, forgive me, Doctor; I’m at the end of my tether and don’t know what I’m saying or doing anymore.”

John sighed and patted the boy's frail shoulders.

“Come, come, my boy, there’s nothing to forgive; what’s said can soon be forgotten if you tell me the truth.”

“Before I went up to Oxford and after boarding school, I had a tutor.”

Here, John blanched, knowing what was to come.

“What was his name?” he asked.

“Mr Douglas, Mr. Sholto Douglas; he came highly recommended by church prelates and wealthy men; my parents are frequently engaged here in town or travelling and I was left to the care of my tutor.”

“What did he do to you?”

“Not what you think; he was a splendid teacher, proficient in Latin and Greek and with a vast knowledge of poetry, but after a while I noticed he was anxious, that he was receiving frequent letters and after perusing them, he wasn’t his habitual self. I loved him by then so I tried to tease the truth out of him and, in the end, he confessed that he was under obligation to procure models for a dear friend of his who was publishing nude photographs of youths and he didn’t know what to do; I gathered that his was a serious predicament and I offered my services. It did seem nothing more than an artistic endeavour, like models who pose for paintings.”

“How old were you?”

“It was five years ago. It started with simple poses which became more and more… risqué, until one summer day, he came back from the village brandishing a letter from that same friend; he asked if I would go with him to see this person. I looked forward to finally meet the mysterious man, but when we got to our destination, he was nowhere to be seen. We heard his voice – a foreign accented one – but he stayed hidden behind a screen. What he wanted was for us to perform some specific… acts while he took photographs of us from behind his arras. He allowed Mr Douglas to wear a mask over his eyes, but I was to be completely visible, since I was the one his ‘friends’ were paying to see.”

“Oh my God,” John exclaimed, his heart beating madly in his chest.

“Do you know what the worst part of it was? I enjoyed it, or so I felt at the time. I loved Mr Douglas with the blind adoration of a boy for his master and would have done anything to please him. In time, this secret started to weigh heavily on my soul and even now the memory of those days stays with me, vivid as the day it happened, so much so that I have to take certain... steps to chase it away.”

“Laudanum?”

The boy laughed, bitterly.

“Is it so obvious? Yes, I have to use something as I am too scared that I will become one of them. You see, Doctor, at Balliol I have formed a reputation of -  how shall I put it -  carnal generosity; I try to be light-hearted and give as much joy and satisfaction as I receive, but the phantom of those squalid dalliances hovers like a shadow; there are times when I fear I will become as cruel and heartless as those men. Some of the younger boys worship me and it would be so easy to take advantage of them, to prey on their innocence. I feel that I am tainted and sometimes the only way out appears to be… death.”

John took the delicate hands in his and squeezed them tight.

“Don’t say that, not ever. You are not to blame; you trusted a wicked man and it ruined your faith in love and friendship. But you are so young and full of promise; there is nothing you can’t achieve if you let the past go. Tell me what I can do.”

“I want my photographs to be destroyed. The mere idea that multitudes of men can see my naked body engaged in such lewd acts… I can’t stand it!” William cried out.

“Yes, of course. This is what Sherlock and I will do: we will find the man responsible and have him arrested; after that, all of his horrid archive will be destroyed by the authorities.”

The boy shook his head, frantically holding on to John's arm.

“No, please, do not involve the police. These people are dangerous and they have friends in high places. They may do something terrible, even kill, if they felt threatened.”

“Sholto died recently; he drowned.”

Hardinge paled and his entire body was shaken by a violent shudder.

“No, he couldn’t… he was a good swimmer… oh, they must have killed him!”

“The police didn’t find anything suspicious, but I agree that it may have been murder rather than an accident.”

“They will kill me too, one day. Even now, I am not safe. Oh Christ, what have I done? I should never have come to you!”

He was becoming hysterical with fear and John was tempted to slap him, but he took him in his arms instead, holding him like he would have a fractious baby.

After he’d quietened, the doctor took stock of the situation and made up his mind about the way to proceed.

“You will go back to Oxford and behave like nothing’s happened. Sherlock and I will find your photographs without involving Scotland Yard. I have your card and I will get in touch only if necessary.”

“I’m in your debt, Doctor Watson,” the boy replied, wiping the tears from his eyes.

Even after such a crisis, he still looked as untouched as a statue, his beauty undimmed, with a quality of eternity in it that John found deeply moving and totally devoid of sexual connotations.

“Don’t even think of it,” he said, and to change the subject: “who told you about this new world order you were talking about? Was it Sholto?”

“Yes, partially; but I have heard rumours in the air, of a revolution that’s on the making; an upheaval that will shake the foundation of our world, turning good into bad and vice versa; forever changing the patterns of our morality.”

John smiled and patted the boy’s back.

“Men have always tried to change the ways of the world, but ultimately love, respect and loyalty win every fight against the forces of evil.”

“You seem very sure, Doctor.”

“I have to be or I wouldn’t be alive today.”

They came out of the church into a bright and cold early afternoon. William squinted at the sunlight and shielded his eyes with the back of his hand; he seems so defenceless, John felt guilty in letting him go on his own; he decided to accompany him to his lodgings, and when they parted,shaking hands, he told himself that if that ever happened to Sherlock, he would kill the person responsible, but only after having made him suffer the torments of hell.

When he returned to Baker Street, Sherlock wasn’t there.

He’d left a note that he would be back for dinner, but without any additional information as to his whereabouts.

 

Perhaps it had not been a good idea, not one of his brightest for sure, but Sherlock had wanted to see what was behind that painted screen ever since Mycroft had reprimanded him. As soon as he’d made the connection with St. Etheldreda’s, he realised he had to see it in person, test that his hypothesis was correct.

He knew John would not have allowed him to go and this was the only reason why he felt a strange, unusual pang of guilt he’d never experienced before.

That must be what people meant when they talked about disappointing a loved one; he imagined his friend’s frown of disapproval and, regardless of the sexual frisson it elicited, it did bring with it a sense of unworthiness that sat on his chest like a stone.

Curiosity, however, was too strong and couldn’t be silenced, so he wore his shabbiest coat and most unfashionable hat and boarded the train to Westminster.

Luckily it was a sunny day, so he wouldn’t need to worry about leaving footprints inside the church.

St. Margaret was exactly like he remembered it: spacious and pretty, but with few interesting features, mainly consisting in its marble columns and Tudor stained glass windows. A strong smell of candle wax and incense permeated the air, and on the high altar - between the two pillar candles on either side of it – was an open Bible; a fringed, golden bookmark lay by the left hand side of the book, as if somebody had been distracted in the act of reading.

Sherlock sensed the presence of somebody, but before he could convince himself that it was better for him to leave, he turned his back to the altar and went in search of the crypt. On the south side, behind a wrought iron screen, was a carved wooden door that opened onto a flight of crumbling stone steps.

St. Margaret’s had been a Benedictine abbey and the crypt, with its Norman columns with cushion capitals, was the jewel in the crown of that unremarkable establishment.

The detective descended the steps with the stealth of a cat, but he had not even reached the bottom, when he heard the murmurs of voices in his vicinity.

“My dear Carmont, do not fret: everything is going precisely the way we planned it.”

Sherlock knew that voice: it belonged to the Bishop of Shrewsbury, Ambrose James Moriarty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Will Sherlock make it out of the crypt before Moriarty sees him?


	20. Where Faith Died

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets into trouble and it's John to the rescue (what's new?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Death and The Maiden:

_“At length he paused: a black mass in the gloom,_

_A tower that merged into the heavy sky;_

_Around, the huddled stones of grave and tomb:_

_Some old God's-acre now corruption's sty:_

_He murmured to himself with dull despair,_

_Here Faith died, poisoned by this charnel air”_

_The City of Dreadful Night (excerpt) – John Thomson_

 

* * *

 

 

Reredos: a word that Sherlock never thought he would have to use outside of the Pearson's Magazine crossword puzzle. The ornamental painted screen, habitually covering the back of an altar, was to be his hiding place. Thankfully, it was a voluminous arras and there were no altars in what was, after all, a glorified ossuary.

The forest of marble columns had concealed his descent, but unfortunately it also smothered the sound of voices, which otherwise would have resonated quite clearly in the windowless space.

As it was, the detective could barely discern what the two prelates were saying; he only gathered that the Bishop was trying to assuage the fears of Father Carmont, reassuring him that no obstacle would stand in their way.

That sing-song tone and its Irish lilt caused all manner of shudders and shivers to course through Sherlock’s body, and, since the tremors took him by surprise and upset his balance, he was forced to lean heavily against the wall, pressing on it with his open hand in order to absorb part of his weight and muffle the noise.

What happened after that, he didn’t have time to properly assess: in what had seemed to him solid brickwork, a cavity opened and immediately closed behind him.

 

John had no intention of waiting for Sherlock’s return. After the events at the Masonic Temple, he constantly dreaded another similar incident, especially considering the detective’s propensity for seeking trouble and finding it.

He had little doubt that he would find the information he needed by checking his private room; sure enough, as soon as entered he noticed the plan of the Westminster church on his friend's desk; he cursed loud enough that he feared Mrs Hudson could have overheard, but that was not the time for caution. He dashed to his room to collect his pistol and, putting coat and hat back on in a haphazard manner, he stormed out of the flat in search of a cab.

“Dr. Watson,” a feminine voice called him.

He was determined to ignore it, but the lady in question took hold of his arm with some force.

“Ms. Overgaard,” he said, wincing at the unwanted touch.

The Dutch lady was still wearing her magenta coat, but this time she also had an extravagant floppy hat covering her bluish hair.

Her half-lidded brown eyes peeped out from under its brim like crocodiles floating mid-water.

“I hope I am not importuning you,” she said, clearly meaning the opposite.

“I’m afraid you catch me at an unfortunate time; I’m late for an appointment,” he lied.

“I heard you visited poor Julia. I hope you didn’t pay too much attention to her words; she’s not all there yet, if you know what I mean.”

“Aside from being concussed, she seemed alright to me; tired and a bit woozy, but that’s only to be expected, considering she nearly died,” John replied, curtly.

“Your timing was impeccable, Doctor. I wonder whether it does always serve you well or if, on occasion, you do make mistakes and… fall behind.”

He froze and feared what she might be alluding to.

“I’m not infallible, madam, but I try my utmost not to disappoint my friends,” he replied, still searching the street for a cab.

“You and Mr Holmes are very good friends, I hear.”

“We live and work together.”

“You had another good friend, but he’s no longer with us.”

John wished he could see the woman’s face and was sorely tempted to snatch the hat from her head.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

The woman smiled without showing her teeth, but reminded him all the same of a shark.

“Mr Douglas was a lovely man and he is sorely missed, as I am sure you’ll agree.”

“I can’t say I do,” he replied.

“I wouldn’t believe the rumours one hears; especially from unknown people. If you think on it, Dr Watson, nothing is easier than appearing out of nowhere, spinning a tale of misery and disgrace, and begging for help. It’s the oldest trick in the book,” she said, scratching the tweed of his overcoat with her talons.

“You like water,” he stated.

The non-sequitur seemed to startle her for an instant, but she soon regained her malevolent poise.

“Amsterdam is my home and it lives and breathes water.”

“Just like Venice,” he said, and this time he knew the shot had hit home.

Mary Overgaard bent he head, much like a viper, and hissed in his ear.

“Do not cross us, sir, or we will not be as forgiving as we have been until now. Quit courting danger or it will find you.”

Before he could reply, she turned on her heel and disappeared around the corner.

“Damn hag!” he exclaimed.

Undeterred, he hailed a cab and shouted his destination at the driver.

 

The reek of sulphur and mould - and another sweetish scent he couldn’t place - were even worse than the utter darkness of the narrow passage inside which he was trapped. He had a lighter in his pocket, but at first he wasn’t sure of being alone; he touched the walls of his prison and realised they were damp and uneven; the ceiling was barely high enough to stand upright; as soon as he felt safe, he took out the lighter.

The flicker of fire showed him a tunnel that – given the state of the brickwork – had clearly been excavated a long time ago, probably when the church had been built. From the rubble piled up along the length of the walls, it was also evident that the passage had been obstructed by a collapse of the structure, perhaps during the War.

He saw a pair of thick rubber gloves on the floor by the concealed door, and next to them, were a couple of digging implements. The elation of knowing he had been right was curtailed by the danger of his predicament: if he tried to go back into the crypt, chances were Moriarty would be there waiting for him, but if the tunnel had not been dug at the other extremity, he’d be stuck inside it and with an ever diminishing supply of air.

“Damnation,” he expostulated, under his breath.  
He had no choice but to try and swim with the tide, however hostile it may turn out to be.

Gingerly, he stepped over damp, unseemly puddles of tainted water and advanced further into the darkness; as he’d predicted, the passage narrowed, getting tighter and lower as he proceeded; in the near distance, he perceived an unpleasant scuttling noise, a burrowing motion that indicated the presence of rats.

After a while, the light started to dwindle; he was no closer to the exit, as far as he could tell, and even though he didn’t usually suffer from claustrophobia, the paucity of oxygen and space were starting to affect his body: he felt dizzy and his heart was beating too loudly.

“Breathe slowly,” he told himself, imagining John’s soothing voice and his hands massaging his scalp, they way he’d done the day before. Such a long time ago, it seemed, almost a lifetime.

As he was thus absorbed in his thoughts, he was unprepared for the loud bang that came soon after, shaking the entire tunnel and causing a rainfall of gravel and brick dust.

“What the deuce?” he swore, shielding his head with his hands.

This episode made up his mind to retrace his steps and brave Moriarty, rather than be buried alive in the company of rodents.

He quickly made his way back, but his hands touched the closed door and pushed, nothing happened. He used his entire body to press against it, trying to force it open, but to no avail. After a while spent in that manner, banging and kicking the unwieldy surface, he grew increasingly desperate and light-headed; in the end, he slid down to the filthy floor and let his mind drift into oblivion.

 

The cab left John on Westminster Bridge, and as he approached the church, he saw a notorious figure emerge from the ornate portal.

He moved further away, flattening his back against the side of the clock tower. Moriarty standing in the entrance-porch, talking to another man, probably a priest.

John could not hear what they were saying, but he hoped the Bishop of Shrewsbury was about to take his leave. Unfortunately, it soon appeared that it wasn’t the case: another person, whose countenance John could not discern, joined them and the three of them went swiftly back inside.

John thought it eminently unwise to follow them  since he was sure it would endanger Sherlock, wherever he was hiding. There was also another option to consider: that they had found him and he was now at their mercy.

After giving due consideration to the two options, he decided the latter was unlikely, as Moriarty would not have risked leaving his prisoner if that were the case.

The doctor knew that his friend wanted to inspect the crypt and, once he was sure the three men had definitely departed, he looked around for an external entrance to the ossuary.

Among the columns and greenery of the peristyle at the back of the building, he thought he’d found what he was looking for, but it was a fake door, what they called a trompe-l'œil.

He partially retraced his steps and in the ambulatory, near the door of the porch under the tower, he saw a monument to an unknown lady; underneath it was an inscription, consisting of ten lines of verse from the pen of Alexander Pope.

 _“Here rests a woman, good without pretence,_  
_Blest with plain reason, and with sober sense:_  
_No conquest she but her own self desired,_  
_No arts essayed, but not to be admired:_  
_Passion and pride were to her soul unknown;_  
_Convinced that virtue only is our own:_  
_So unaffected, so composed a mind,_  
_So firm, yet soft, so strong, yet so refined,_  
_Heaven, as its purest gold, by tortures tried;_  
_The saint sustain'd it, but the woman died.”_

Another saint, he sighed, and it did seem to him there wasn’t much to be admired in a human being devoid of passion.  It often transpired that these martyrs had not been capable of deep sentiment, unlike Jesus who had been transported as much by his emotions as he had been by the strength of his faith.

For his part, John would rather take a man who was proud and vain, soft and haughty, rather than a paragon of virtue, cold as a statue, but then again Sherlock was hardly prime material for sainthood, he pondered, smiling.

_Damn him, what was he up to?_

He looked up at the tower and decided to try his luck.

Inside, past the lofty arches decorated with quatrefoils and trefoils, was a small niche with a white statue partly corroded by time and mould and a brass candelabra with six lit candles. To the side was an open door leading to the spiral staircase that snaked upwards to the top where the bells were nestled. He’d nearly lost hope, when he saw the screen covering the wall opposite the statue. It was painted with images of the Resurrection of Lazarus and, bizarrely, with a depiction of Death and the Maiden.

Death and the Lad, Sherlock had hissed in his ear, after John had come back from the cemetery.

 _Yes, my darling,_ he thought, _I’m coming to find you._

With some difficulty, he pushed the heavy arras to the side, but there was no visible aperture in the wall.

He recalled Sherlock’s description of the crypt and, even though he was in the wrong place, he sensed that he was on the right track.

For what felt like an eternity, he examined the wall inch by inch, prodded and pressed on it, without result; in frustration, he slid down to the floor and kicked at the base of the screen; a petty gesture, he knew it and regretted it as soon as he made contact with the metal, but his brain was given no time to process the events that followed: a chink opened as if by magic and he tumbled in, backwards; the breach was about to snap shut, but thanks to his war-trained reflexes, and the fact that his foot had slammed against a pile of bricks, he was quick enough to wedge them between the two sides of the sliding door; the mechanism was thus blocked and he and Sherlock would be able to make their escape that way; besides, the tunnel was in complete darkness and even that partial chink of light was a godsend.

Ever since his time in the trenches, John held a deep-seated hatred of dark, confined spaces, but as it had been back then and even more so now, he could keep his emotions in check and proceed in his endeavour with the coolest of heads.

Slowly, he moved forward, sniffing the air in the hope of discerning Sherlock’s unmistakeable fragrance; what he smelled instead was something he could never forget, the sweetish smell of dissipating mustard gas. Luckily, when at that stage, it was no longer deadly, but it was still dangerous enough to cause nausea and vomiting. He covered his face with his scarf and started walking faster.

Gripped by fear, he threw caution to the wind and didn’t see the wall that stood between him and the other side of the tunnel.

“Bugger,” he swore. And this juncture, he had no patience left to repeat the laborious process of finding a way through; he took his gun and shot blindly at the wall.

 

“Sherlock, are you alright? My dear, open your eyes, please, darling,” John was murmuring, as he touched the face and hair of his beloved friend.

He’d almost stumbled on the man’s legs, as he walked in complete darkness.

“John,” the boy whispered, after a while. “I feel sick, but I swear I didn’t do anything dangerous.”

“We’ll discuss this later when we are both safely out of this deuced graveyard. Cover your face with your scarf and try not to breathe too deeply. It’s mustard gas, but fortunately it’s all but evaporated; still, better get out of here pronto,” the doctor said, trying to help the detective back on his feet. The first attempt was a failure, as the young man collapsed back down, but the second time John lifted him up into his arms and partially carried him, stopping only when his legs threatened to buckle; by then, they were within reach of the door and a tremulous light was shining through.

“I did notice a sweetish smell,” Sherlock tried to explain, but John interrupted his remonstrations.

“You shouldn’t have come here on your own,” he scolded, as they limped towards the exit.

“I heard a shot,” the detective said, scratching at his reddened eyes.

“Yes, well, there was no time for niceties,” was the curt reply. “We have to get out of here as soon as possible. They must have heard it; in fact, I am surprised they haven’t come down already.”

“The walls are extremely thick and so is the door to the crypt; it’s been built like this on purpose, so that should an explosion occur, it couldn’t be heard from inside the church. The mustard gas is for the occasional intruder,” the young man explained; he was sweating hot and cold and his stomach and oesophagus hurt terribly, as if they had been drenched in acid, which in a way was the case.

“The occasional foolish intruder who did not wait for his partner before putting his life in peril,” John chided.

“Can you stand up, my dear, or do I have to carry you like a bride?” he added, more tenderly, cleaning the dirt off his friend’s face.

The boy did his best to sniff haughtily, but since his nose and eyes were running, he resembled a recalcitrant infant.

“I can stand on my own two legs,” he muttered, and weak as a kitten, he tottered towards the tower’s portal.

“Listen,” John said, and sure enough, from inside the opening came a muffled sound of steps; the blond man swiftly kicked away the bricks that had kept it open and it shut again, deadly as a mousetrap.

“Let’s go,” he ordered.

When they emerged from the candlelit tower into the London twilight, both men breathed deeply for a moment, glad to be in the open air again.

“Who’s there?” a voice shouted. Thankfully, it wasn’t Moriarty, but the third man John had not identified.

“Come on,” he said, taking Sherlock’s hand.

He heard a shot and then another, but thankfully the partial darkness protected them.

They ran and ran until they were on the bridge, where John stopped a cab by jumping in front of it, thus incurring the wrath of the cantankerous driver.

“Baker Street, as quick as you can,” he said, and only then realised his companion was unusually quiet.

“Sherlock?” he asked, and as he released his grip from the man’s waist, he realised his hand was wet with blood.

“I may have been shot,” the boy replied, venturing a dismissive laugh that soon became a cough.

“Let me see,” John said, trying to keep calm.

He delicately removed the layers of clothes which were sticking to the wound, and examined the damage done.

“The bullet went in and came out the other side; I can’t say for certain, but it seems to be nothing more than a graze. Not that you have any fat to spare, but what little there is, has been perforated by that maniac’s bullet. Here, press this against the wound."

"Hey there,” he shouted at the driver, through the open partition, “Do you have any whisky?”

“I am not allowed to drink on the job, sir,” the man replied.

“What about in between jobs? I wager a guinea that you do,” he said, taking the coin out of his purse.

“May or may not,” the driver muttered, but at the first crossing, he stopped and exchanged his flask for the guinea.

John poured a few drops of liquor on his handkerchief and dabbed it on the site of the injury. Sherlock let out a whimper, which he tried to smother by biting down on his lip.  
“Now drink this; it will settle your stomach and keep you awake,” he ordered.

The boy complied; he coughed and his eyes watered, but a measure of colour returned to his translucent cheeks.

“You, my darling, are an idiot; a brilliant, magnificent one, but still an idiot,” John complained, stroking the boy’s hair and neck.

Sherlock let his head fall on John’s shoulder and nodded, pitifully.

“I shouldn’t have come on my own.”

“You shouldn’t have come at all! Now they know we have discovered their secret and God knows what will happen.”

The detective was silent.

“What? Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sherlock! You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Not exactly, but it crossed my mind that…”

“Oh shut up and drink your whisky!”

John could have strangled him, but couldn’t but admire his courage and love his childlike curiosity.

“Come here,” he murmured, and took Sherlock in his arms, where he remained for the rest of the journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: who is the mysterious third man?


	21. Equivocate to Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was Moriarty's real plan and did Sherlock really know about it beforehand?
> 
> In the interim, some comfort (sort of) sex will happen, so mind the tags
> 
> Thanks to all you guys for reading and commenting!!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The 'notorious blanket' is the one Sherlock talked about in a previous chapter, a spoil from one of his cases.

_“I never yet knew a treason without a Romish priest; but in this there are very many Jesuits, who are known to have dealt and passed through the whole action.”_

_Sir Edward Coke_

_“Faith, here's an equivocator,_  
_that could swear in both the scales against either scale;_  
_who committed treason enough for God's sake,_  
_yet could not equivocate to heaven.”_

_Macbeth, Act 2 Scene 3_

 

* * *

 

 

The tension and adrenalin engendered by their adventure, not to speak of his worry for Sherlock’s well-being, had caused John to overlook his own condition: his eyes were scratchy and red, his stomach hurt and his head pulsated as if it had a heart of its own.

It was late at night when he finally let go of his stoicism and swallowed a couple of aspirin pills.

When he returned to bed, the detective was fast asleep; a heavy slumber produced by a combination of liquor and pain medicines.

The wound had not needed stitches, but the cleaning and dressing of it had not been pleasant, even though both men had feigned calm and detachment.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mrs Hudson was worried, poor soul,” John said, as he deposited Sherlock on the divan, as delicately as he could.

“She’s always worried, but you won’t find a more resilient creature in the entire kingdom: appearance of Sèvres porcelain, but the grit of an old boot.”

“That doesn’t sound particularly appreciative; I’m sure I wouldn’t want to be compared to footwear, however sturdy,” John chuckled, as he rekindled the fire.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his lover’s movement.

“You are not going anywhere, not until I have had a good look at you,” he cautioned, without taking his eyes off the fireplace.

“I’m not well… my stomach,” the young man said; he was white as a ghost, except for his lips which were bitten red.

He gave a repeat performance of his reactions after the incident at the Masonic Temple; in another words, he was horribly sick; in this instance though, he was also bleeding and weeping.

“John,” he sniffled, “My eyes won’t stop crying; what an interesting phenomenon; would you get a test tube from my studium? I will collect a sample for later inspection.”

“I’m not collecting your tears for science; certainly not before I have seen to your wound. Here let me,” John said, as he rifled through his old medical case for disinfectant, bandages and tweezers.

“You see, I had it all figured out in my head,” Sherlock stated, and was interrupted by the blond man’s impatient sigh and by a potent sneeze that shook his entire frame; in addition to that, he was suffering the torments of hell at John’s ministrations, but would not let it be apparent.

“Don’t lie to me; you went because you just couldn’t wait a single solitary minute,” John replied, extracting a sliver of fabric from the mess of blood and tissue.

“You were with that Hardinge boy; may I enquire about your lunch?” Sherlock hissed, as John removed another shard of material.

“It was hardly a jolly occasion, more of a wake really; once this case is done, I won’t set foot inside a church for a long while.”

He narrated the tale that William had related to him, describing every detail of the boy’s countenance and trying to use the same turns of phrase the boy had favoured.

“I’m sorry, John. About Sholto, I mean. You did love him, once.”

“It wasn’t love, my darling; we were friends and we enjoyed each other’s bodies, for a while. But it was a terrible shock, I admit; even though we already knew about Constantine Pritchard, this, coming from the lips of a living person, is somehow worse. He was and still is just a kid, my dear, and now he needs our help. But first tell me what it is that you ‘figured out in your head.’”

Sherlock tried to sit straight, but he was too weak and slid back down, sideways. John glared at him and from then on, the detective did not move unless specifically told to.

“While it’s true that I went there because I was curious,” here the doctor snorted emphatically; “it is also true that during the train journey there – yes, yes, I used public transportation, stop chuckling – I examined the situation: if we told Lestrade, the plan would be scuppered, but he wouldn’t find any proof of malfeasance; those criminals would make sure of that. Thus, they would only prepare another and then another, until they would finally succeed. Time is no obstacle for them; they are not in a hurry, you see? The plan has been years in the making, surely born of a yearning for power that feeds off the tissue of our society like a tumour.”

“But certainly the very same criteria applied to you; at least with Scotland Yard on the case, we would have had some hope of an arrest, but now it is surely impossible…” John countered, applying a dollop of paste over the rim of the wound.

“I’m sure you are right, my dear, because that’s what I thought too; and it was then that I realised that I had been an idiot.”

At this, the doctor grinned so contentedly that Sherlock forgave his aches for a moment and returned the smile; they basked in the glow of their connection, not saying anything, just holding each other’s gaze, like a tender caress forever suspended in time.

“What sort of clever deduction did you then make, my darling?” the blond man finally asked, dropping a kiss on the detective’s sweat-soaked brow.

“Not particularly clever, John, quite the opposite: it was too easy, much too easy. Father Lockhart coming to see us, all but luring us to his church; Moriarty here in London, giving you a detailed account on how the building was acquired: all of it pointed to them wanting us to follow a specific trail, which we obligingly did.”

“They wanted us to believe there was a plan to…”

“…to blow up the Houses of Parliament; another Guy Fawkes - a new Gunpowder Plot,” Sherlock confirmed, his eyes gleaming through the film of moisture still clouding them.

“Why would they go to such laborious extremes just to confound us?”

“It wasn’t meant for us, but rather for our esteemed client, Mr Maundy Gregory.”

“What, how?”

John was a portrait of bemusement and Sherlock wanted very much to show off; he wanted his lover to gaze at him admiringly, to desire him like the first and last time; the intensity of it rendered him faint, so he had to breathe deeply and shut his eyes.

He went on, without opening them.

“You haven’t paid attention to the news lately, have you? Too busy saving me from myself, my dear; a certain Victor Grayson of the socialist party disappeared after a resounding victory in the Colne-Valley by-election. Rumours abound that he was accusing our client of corruption, in cahoots with the opposition party. I think you will find that St. Margaret’s, much as Lockhart’s parish, has been acquired at auction, and that the person who secured its ownership was none other than our very own Mr Maundy Gregory. Or at least, that’s what the documents will purport.”

The detective looked at his lover and saw those beloved eyes staring, evidently puzzled.

“Let me unfold this tale for you, by dear: Maundy Gregory, an important figure in Whitehall, is vaguely accused of being responsible for the disappearance of a feared adversary; it’s only a rumour, nothing comes of it; but when Scotland Yard finds that a bomb has been planted to destroy the most important building in the country, the seat of our democracy, they will also find that our client owns the very place in which the attack was prepared and nearly executed. Naturally, they had no intention of blowing up Parliament; poisoning the minds of the British public was more than enough.”

“But what would they obtain?”

“They are already rid of Mr Grayson, whom I believe has probably been buried inside that godforsaken crypt; thanks to their plan, they would have incriminated an honest man and caused a crisis in government, such a one as would have made it possible for them to have their own figurehead, whomever that might have been it’s immaterial to us, leading the country.”

“What happens now?”

The detective shook his head, which was not a good idea, as far as his persisting nausea was concerned.

“Like you said, now they know we have found them out, but they expect us to inform the police, which we will not do. We shall call Mycroft, instead. To be precise, you will. The last thing I need is another emetic.”

John kissed him on the lips, softly at first and then more deeply, until Sherlock felt the therapy working on the lower parts of his body.

“You are superlative, my love,” the blond man whispered, before taking his friend’s mouth again.

“Am I forgiven?” the detective asked, slightly out of breath,

“Not when you are asking me to talk to your brother,” John quipped, but stood up to fulfil his assignment.

“No matter what he says, tell him not to come here!”

The elder Holmes was as quick-witted as his brother: no sooner had John explained about the events of the day that he came to the same conclusion as Sherlock. He sighed and fussed when he learnt that his sibling had got into trouble, but he agreed to do his utmost to silence the press and make sure that Scotland Yard investigated the church in the a non-official capacity. The Chief Superintendent was not to know, he said and, although John didn’t question his statement, he assumed his dear friend would grasp its significance.

“They have men in high places, why did you think our client was so worried?” was what Sherlock said on the matter.

After his torso had been duly bandaged and he had drunk a bowl of Mrs Hudson’s broth, John poured a healthy quantity of brandy in two glasses.

“Here, it will help you sleep more comfortably,” he said, handing one to his partner.

“And promise you won’t do that again; if you get into trouble, at least let me be there with you.”

“Agreed,” the young man said; after he swallowed the golden liquor, his veins caught fire and so did his insides; he took John’s hand and pressed it between his legs, sighing.

“My love, you know that I always, always… but you need to rest. Here, let me help you to bed.”

Sherlock pouted and sniffed, wiping his itchy eyes, but did not insist; he knew John was right, that even if he had the will – which he most certainly did – he wouldn’t have the way.

“I want to sleep in your room,” he said, with effrontery, a little afraid that his friend would refuse him.

“Of course, my darling; here, let me carry you,” the doctor replied, and lifted him like he were a feather.

And that was how they ended up in bed, Sherlock fast asleep, snoring lightly and John tormented by scratchy eyes and a pounding headache.

As he waited for the aspirins to take effect, the doctor contemplated his friend’s angular face, the tangled hair, the parted lips and was filled with such a surfeit of love that he didn’t quite know what to do with it. He caressed the stretch of pillow that Sherlock’s breath was warming and kissed the coil of a curl.

“Goodnight, my dear,” he whispered, and after a short while, he too fell asleep.

 

The morning greeted Sherlock with grey skies, rain and pain.

Of course there was the ache due to his injury, but even stronger and more demanding was that of his arousal.

In his sleep, he had curled his body against the back of his friend’s and his erection was as hard as gemstone.

A conundrum presented itself: should he wake John up or should he just take his pleasure in the most natural way? He couldn’t stay still anymore; his testicles were too full for indifference.

He thrust forward and when his bare member rubbed against the cotton of John’s nightshirt, he could not suppress a moan.

“Darling,” the blond man muttered, emerging from his slumber.

“Sorry,” he murmured in reply, but his hips moved again, unable to resist.

“You shouldn’t move; here, let me do all the work.”

Swiftly, John sat up and removed his garment; after that, he manoeuvred Sherlock flat on his back, naked, his penis so erect it was flush against his taut belly.

“Hold the headboard with your hands and stay absolutely still; if you don’t, I’ll stop,” he ordered, his mouth watering at the prospect of what was to happen.

The detective nodded and spread his folded legs extravagantly wide, so that his genitalia stood out, swollen and flushed, like an obscene sacrifice offering.

“Scream all you like,” John said, and this was his last command before he filled his mouth with bliss.

 

Later, Sherlock mused that being sucked by his beloved’s mouth without being able to as much as tremble, was the best torture ever invented.

When John had taken his sac into his mouth, licking at the wrinkled skin until it was as tight as a drum, the young man had let out a pitiful whimper which had turned into a yowl the next instant, when the suckling started. Wetness and pressure, the barest nip of teeth; then a finger, circling the rim of his entrance, and a knuckle pressing on his perineum; and his cock slapping against his skin, needy, wanting; he was babbling incoherently, he was aware of it, but couldn’t stop; his back demanded to arch, his throat asked to do the same and oh, how his hips wanted to jerk upwards!

His lover read his desperation and assuaged it with touching and words; he didn’t talk as much, usually, but he knew Sherlock needed it.

“Your lovely cockhead, all red and leaking; here, let me, oh let me,” he whispered, before lapping up the clear, salty liquid with voracious appetite; he engulfed the glans with his mouth, sucking hard and working it with his tongue, holding the shaft in his tight fist, while his other hand teased the young man’s balls and anus.

It went on and on, until the detective was ready to climax, but his lover did not let him. Instead, he pumped the entire length with both hands, delighting in rubbing the foreskin over the drenched head, staring at the sight, as if mesmerised.

“I wish to see you doing this to yourself, one day,” he croaked, “Will you show me?”

Sherlock moaned and cried, but could not utter a word.

John kept at it, alternating the strokes with flicks and suckles, up to the moment when he felt the member thicken; he slowed down, causing his lover to keen in distress.

“Say that you will show me,” he insisted.

“Yes, yes,” the young man screamed. “Please, oh please!”

“Please what?”

“Finish me off… I need to, I have to…”

“Tell me, my love…”

“I will do it for you…let you watch, yes, yes…” he babbled, his eyes dark as the bottom of the ocean, his lips blood-red.

“Oh, my darling,” John chanted, and rising up on his knees, he took the boy’s mouth with his, biting it like a ripe fruit, and letting the juices trickle, only to lick them off that delectable throat.

At the same time, he fisted both his lover’s cock and his own, and since he too was close to orgasm, a few strokes were enough for their pleasure to overflow. Their combined release sprayed the detective’s chest and stomach and it took all of John’s self-restraint to not pounce on his lover and lick him dry.

“I love you,” he declared, massaging the thick discharge over the boy’s nipples until they were hard and coated with it.

Sherlock finally removed his hands from their prison and dipped a finger in the mess on his torso; staring John in the eye, he sucked on it, swallowing it down to the first knuckle. They stayed like that, gazing at each other like duellists, until the older man could no longer resist taking the finger out of his lover’s mouth and devouring it with his.

“I love you too, very much,” the detective whispered then, feeling flayed open and vulnerable.

“You are forgiven,” John said, wiping him with his nightshirt then covering him up with the notorious blanket.

Sherlock smirked, an exhausted, lopsided sliver of a smile.

“Was this supposed to be my punishment? If so, you have drastically failed,” he jested.

“I wouldn’t do that, my dear; sexual blackmail will never be my currency of choice: a game, yes, an obsession, most likely, but not a device to change your behaviour. Not that I want to change you anyway, just ask you to consider my place in your life,” the blond man replied, caressing the detective's throat.

“I will, I do,” Sherlock said, seriously.

“I do, too,” John echoed, even more solemn.

“Now that we have clarified things, let me look at your wound. The bandage needs changing and I want to rub some more paste on it,” he added.

“Yes, Sir!” the detective joked, but all the same followed his lover to the wash-room.

 

Breakfast turned out to be a lazy lunch, during which Mrs Hudson smothered them with plentiful attentions and delicacies. Sherlock was deliciously difficult, picking at his food with little grunts and huffs that made John smile even as he pretended to be annoyed; they perused the newspapers and, like Mycroft had promised, found nothing about their adventure of the previous day. There was, however, a mention of a certain Zinoviev in the Daily Mail, but Sherlock dismissed it with a moue of disdain.

“They manufacture fake news, hoping to discredit every politician they dislike, which is usually all of them. Here they are trying to suggest that this Russian fellow is a revolutionary and an explosives expert. Fortunately, nothing is known of St. Margaret’s or they would have found a way to link him to Maundy Gregory. Odious rag!”

John nodded, in complete agreement with his fiancé.

“I forgot to tell you that Ms Overgaard came here to threaten us. I sent her packing, but what I found interesting was that she knew about William; somebody must have told her; and when I mentioned Venice, she became even more reptilian, if possible.”

The detective frowned and the expression in his eyes told John that he was concocting another plan.

What he did not expect was the suggestion spoken by those lush lips.

“We have to go back to Cork Street; the art gallery, John; and this time, we won’t take no for an answer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maundy Gregory was really involved in the so-called second gunpowder plot; he was also suspected to have done away with Labour independent candidate Victor Grayson and to have forged a letter from a certain Grigory Zinoviev who was accused of plotting to blow up Parliament. Allegedly, Maundy Gregory did so in collusion with the Daily Mail. Enough said, really.  
> But for this story's purposes, Maundy Gregory is a good guy. He really loved Corvo's writings and tried to salvage his manuscripts.


	22. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start well, but do not end as cheerfully. That's all I will say about this chapter....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the piece for glass harmonica by Mozart. I think I agree with John :)  
> [Adagio for Glass Harmonica in C major](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dE_MZzvigd4)

_“I said, however, a few words to the boys at parting: O Menexenus and Lysis, how ridiculous that you two boys, and I, an old boy, who would fain be one of you, should imagine ourselves to be friends — this is what the by-standers will go away and say — and as yet we have not been able to discover what is a friend!”_

_Lysis (excerpt) - Plato_

 

* * *

 

 

“You are not going out until your wound has healed,” John stated, firmly.

Sherlock pouted, sighed then was ominously silent for a long while; he then decided his next form of protest would consist in playing something which sounded like cats scratching a blackboard.

His friend was later to know that the detective was trying to copy Mozart’s adagio for glass harmonica. John was surprised nobody had jumped down the composer’s throat when he’d played it in front of an audience.

All the same, the doctor would not vacillate: to him it was not a battle of wills, but a matter of keeping Sherlock safe, at least until he was fully recovered.

Naturally, he knew better than to expect his friend to be always pliant and understanding: having always lived alone, or with a family he was intent on displeasing, Sherlock had never cared much about his own health or indeed, how long his life would be.

Fortunately, Lestrade visited them with news that St. Margaret’s was going to be shut down on ‘safety grounds’ and, consequently, Dimmock brought samples of crumbled masonry for the detective to inspect and catalogue.

“How did you contrive it, Inspector?” John asked.

The man smiled sheepishly and brushed a hand through his short grey hair.

“I have to confess it wasn’t entirely my doing. Mycroft produced an expert seist-.., seisf-”

“Seismologist,” intervened the detective, briefly suspending his mutinous silence.

“Yes, that,” Lestrade concurred, “A chap named Wood, who’s applying the calculations of an Italian priest named…”

“Mercalli,” said Sherlock, while John rolled his eyes both at his intervention and at the addition of yet another religious man.

“Yes, well, this Wood chap had a quantity of instruments with him and looked extremely official and, what did Mycroft say, something French,” the Inspector hesitated.

“Comme il faut,” John suggested, just so he could annoy his partner.

“Precisely,” Lestrade agreed, unable to conceal his surprise. “To cut a long story short, after a strange ritual consisting of tapping the ground, checking samples of brick dust and measuring the depth of this and of that, Wood announced to Father Carmont that St. Margaret's was unsafe and should be closed to the public until further notice. Carmont was not happy, let me tell you. But there was nothing he could say or do, since Wood found traces of mustard gas and therefore warned of the possible presence of unexploded devices left there since the War."

“Was the Bishop of Shrewsbury there?” Sherlock asked, surrendering to his curiosity.

“No one was there, apart from Carmont.”

“I have to hand it to Mr Holmes; this is rather an elegant solution,” John commented, smiling at the evident disdain depicted on his lover’s face.

“Yes, quite. I sent Dimmock there in plain clothes; he served as assistant to Wood and even took some samples of stone and bricks from the crypt.”

The two older men exchanged a conspiratorial glance, almost counting under their breath as they waited for Sherlock’s request, which dutifully came.

“I would like to have a look at those samples,” he said, and frowned like a disgruntled child when John and Lestrade laughed.

Dimmock came in - a slip of a boy in an ill-fitted suit and worn shoes, but with lively, intelligent grey eyes – and stared at the detective in awe, as the latter towered over him in his silk dressing gown and dishevelled hair.

John saw the admiration in the boy’s face and recognised the onset of hero worship, a sentiment he didn’t want to encourage. At the same time, Sherlock, who was usually unaware of people’s attention but was freakishly attuned to his friend’s moods, understood the situation and decided to play with it for a while.

“My dear chap,” he said to Dimmock, “help me carry these samples into my study. Oh well, it does sound a lot like the spider inviting the fly into its parlour, doesn’t it?” he joked, batting his long eyelashes and allowing a pretty blush to colour his cheeks.

The boy, who evidently had grown up on a diet of chivalry and derring-do, quickly offered his help, but John would have none of it.

“You have been most kind Inspector, but Sherlock is not quite himself yet. If you don’t mind,” he said, regarding both Lestrade and Dimmock with an unflinching, eloquent stare.

“Of course, yes; come on Dimmock, back to the grind!” the Inspector replied cheerfully; he walked out, taking his reluctant subordinate with him.

As soon as the door closed, John took Sherlock in his arms and kissed him insensate.

“I thought I was the only one invited to your private room,” he murmured, brushing his friend’s lips with the pad of his thumb.

“I knew you would not allow it; it was terribly satisfying to see my hypothesis confirmed,” was the hoarse reply.

“I see,” John said, pushing his finger inside the young man’s mouth, seeking the tip of his tongue. “Would you have let him had I not intervened?”

Sherlock sucked on the digit and closed his eyes.

“No, you know I wouldn’t have. You are the only one I ever let inside it,” he said, and let his lover kiss him again, allowing him to feel how he surrendered in his arms.

“I guess you’ve had your little revenge,” the blond man observed, smiling.

“From time to time, I have to champ at the bit.”

“To get away?”

The detective shook his head, slowly.

“Quite the opposite; to make you pull the reins even tighter,” he whispered.

“My darling,” John murmured, fondly. They stayed in the embrace until the doctor felt Sherlock needed to rest again. He accompanied him to his study, taking the bundle of ‘samples’ with them. Afterwards, he brought in a fresh pot of tea and a plate of buttered scones and left the detective to his own devices.

 

Thus a few uneventful, domestic days passed, during which John learned that his future husband could sleep an inordinate amount of hours when inactive, that he could be silent, sullen and slovenly and go days without brushing his hair or taking a proper bath and that he, John, was so insanely in love that absolutely nothing could diminish his feelings. When on the third afternoon, Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in the nude, clamouring that his bandage needed changing, his companion briefly pondered whether he’d gone mad to invite such childish mutability into his life, but one look at the young man’s guileless expression and his doubts evaporated; more than that, he felt privileged to be allowed to see what Sherlock really was like when he did not put on his armour and mask.

That specific instance had instigated an interesting session of lovemaking, as the blond man forced the detective into the bath and scrubbed him clean in more ways than one.

“You don’t need to shed your clothes to convince me to make love to you: I hoped you knew that already,” John said, as Sherlock leaned back against his chest, his skin soft, wet and soap-scented.

“Oh, I don’t know, my dear; I feared you were starting to see me like a patient rather than a lover.”

 “Perhaps, but that wouldn’t make any difference, don’t you see?”

The detective reflected on this for a moment then broke into laughter.

“You are one perverted, dark soul, Doctor Watson! You wanted to seduce me by inflicting and withdrawing pain, at your leisure.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, my love.”

“And yet you didn’t let me go to Cork Street.”

“Keeping you from unnecessary danger is part of my duties.”

“I won’t live a confined life.”

John snorted.

“You, confined? It’s as unlikely as Moriarty being a pious prelate. I only want you to not become septic in the midst of the investigation. I have seen people dye from infected wounds, even from mere grazes. These people won’t stop at anything, for all we know they may have planned to infect you with some unknown virus.”

“How long now, my dear?” the young man asked.

“Well, let’s see: the swelling has gone down and so has the redness. I don’t see why you shouldn’t be able to board a cab to Piccadilly tomorrow.”

Sherlock turned round to look at his lover’s face and confirm he was serious; when he found what he was seeking, he stood up from the bath, splashing water all over the floor.

“Spiffing!” he exclaimed, shaking his wet mop of hair like an enthusiastic dog. “If that’s the case, we have to discuss what we shall do.”

“I thought you wanted me to stare in awe at your prowess, as you unveiled yet another portion of the fresco,” the older man grinned. He enveloped Sherlock in a large bath sheet and patted him dry.

“I don’t do that,” the detective voice came out muffled by the fabric.

“Yes, you do,” John replied, “And I don’t mind; I quite like it, to be frank.”

He applied paste and a fresh bandage to the young man’s injury and handed him his dressing gown.

“Here, now that you are back in the saddle, you can wear clothes again.”

“If that’s what you really desire,” Sherlock said, and pretending to be affronted, he slid into his garment, tying its belt into a tight knot.

“Come on, Lady Godiva, let’s have something to eat,” the doctor replied, putting on his bathrobe.

 

In the end, John was of course right: the detective opened his mouth to discuss what they may or may not find at the Mayor Gallery, but he closed it soon after, saying nothing.

“You may have a point, dear,” he observed. “If I tell you what to expect, you may betray your feelings or even fight me if I suggest something you might find unpalatable.”

“I’m perfectly capable of keeping an open mind and lie, if necessary.”

“You did not display much of this equanimity when you saw Sholto in that newspaper article about Constantine Pritchard.”

“It was a shock, I agree, but not anymore. I’m ready for the worst of revelations.”

Sherlock caressed the man’s hand, distractedly; he was lost in thought, his eyes blinking fast as he sifted through them.

“Let me just ask you one question: should I bring my gun?”

The detective’s expression changed from pensive to eager in the space of a breath.

 “Yes, please,” he replied, his pupils visibly dilated.

“Alright then; as for the rest: surprise me,” John declared, kissing his lover’s hand.

 

Unlike the previous time, they asked the cab to drop them in Regent’s Street, near Savile Row. Sherlock had said that he wanted to avoid the Burlington Arcade, because of his brother.

“I’m sure he won’t be there; how could be possibly know where we are directed, when we haven’t told a soul?” John had asked, but his friend had stood firm.

“My brother has the uncanny ability of always tracing my whereabouts,” he’d said, and that had been the end of the matter.

When they reached the gallery, they found that it was closed and even the front window was devoid of any artwork.

“Perhaps we should have telephoned in advance, giving a false name, obviously,” John said, looking deflated.

“No, this is precisely what I was hoping for. I have studied their floor plan and there is a fire escape ladder at the back of the building.”

“I wasn’t aware that we would be breaking the law or I would have worn a disguise,” the blond man jested.

“There will be no smashing of property, my dear: I happen to be in possession of a skeleton key,” the young man replied, and as he spoke, he extracted the incriminated object from the pocket of his cape; he then held it in his closed fist, the white frills at his cuff caressing the slim wrist as it moved with the swiftness of a magician's.

“Of course you do,” the doctor sighed, prodding the pocket of his coat to make sure his gun was still there.

The back of the gallery resembled many such places in London and all over the country: while the frontage exuded patrician refinement, the rear was a squalid alleyway frequented by rats at night and always reeking of unseemly effluvia.

The spiral staircase leading to the first floor was made of wrought iron and seemed rather new compared to its desolate surroundings. The door itself was a sturdy sheet of metal, but the lock was a rather common Yale affair, which Sherlock’s key opened without the least impediment.

 

John had not given much thought about what they would find once inside; he had vaguely imagined piles of framed photographs, desks overflowing with papers and, perhaps, an elegantly appointed room filled to the rafters with dainty furniture, to accommodate the wealthy buyers while plying them with drinks from a well-stocked cabinet.

He’d certainly not considered the possibility of it resembling a den of vice: the floors and walls were a sea of crimson; silks, velvets and brocades draped over every surface, candelabra dripping with crystals and gold, and lastly, enormous mirrors on almost every wall, framed in brass, pewter and silver; on them were intricate designs of vine leaves, serpents and birds of paradise. The atmosphere was drenched in sensuality, but it was only on a second, more careful inspection, that one comprehended the full import of that impression: there were drawings and paintings of an obscene nature scattered here and there: a vase depicting the act of fellatio performed by several men, a table cloth in the finest lace with macramé inserts in a phallic motif, a blanket carelessly thrown over a chaise-longue painted over in the Japanese style with numerous couplings, some of them including flora and fauna, all involved in the proceedings.

The two men stood in the midst of that orgiastic display, mouths agape and cheeks flushed, seemingly unable to move.

“We meet at last,” a voice said, coming from behind them. Despite the impeccable English, there was the shadow of an accent threading through it.

“Baron,” Sherlock said, a moment later.

John turned to look at his friend, but the detective didn’t return his gaze.

Before another word was uttered, a man emerged from the folds of a blood-red brocade curtain, or so it appeared: like the birth of Venus from ocean foam, he seemed to spring from the bowels of hell.

Tall and broad-shouldered, with a head of chestnut hair matching a beard that covered half of his face and joined to his sideburns, Baron Wilhelm von Gloeden had piercing dark eyes, the kind that seem black to the extent that the iris is almost at one with the pupil.  He had regular, almost feminine features and John suspected that without his beard, he would have looked quite ephebic.

“I’m glad you’ve come; there was no need for stealth, I was expecting you.”

“You have some photographs that we want you to destroy,” John replied, putting his hand in his pocket and caressing his gun.

The German eyed him with evident amusement and nodded.

Sherlock had paled and was breathing fast, his gaze lost in some faraway, unpleasant vision.

“Please, come into my office,” the man said, guiding them into another extravagant room: purple and night-blue, strewn with more lewd paraphernalia.

The photographs on the walls were black and white depictions of young boys, naked and in various poses, none of them too explicit, but all the same suggestive of eroticism.

“What photographs did you have in mind?” the man asked, as if he seriously intended to help them.

“There is this boy, perhaps you don’t remember him well, his name is…” John started.

“William Hardinge,” the man concluded, nodding and smiling, in an ingratiating manner.

He walked to a desk laden with boxes and leather folders and selected one from a side shelf marked ‘private’.

All during this, Sherlock had been silent, pale and distant, like his lights had been extinguished and what was left was a mere husk.

“Here,” the Baron said, handing John the heavy portfolio; having thus executed his assignment, he sat down on a crimson leather armchair, folding his hands in his lap and looking as contented as the proverbial cat.

Fearing that Sherlock would be reminded of his unsettling vision of Corvo beating up a boy, John decided that he alone should peruse the photographs.

But as soon as removed the silk ribbon and opened the leather binding he was faced with the darkest of infernos: the boy strapped on the chair, naked and covered in scratches wasn’t William at all, but rather the man he loved above all others in the world.

He turned the pages as if in a trance, terrified of what might come next, his heart beating madly in his chest, booming like the drum of Hades, screaming for blood and revenge, for death and damnation; little solace he was to find in the fact that Sherlock was always alone, no other hands were on him but his own, performing the act that only a handful of days before he’d promise John he’d let him witness, for his eyes alone.

When he looked up at Sherlock, he read in his terrified countenance that he’d remembered what had happened, and would do anything to erase it from his mind.

The soft, amused laughter of the Baron worked like fire applied to a powder keg: John took the pictures out of their cellophane wrappers and ripped them one by one, in minuscule pieces, with the precision and determination of a butcher cutting meat.

Once done, he pulled his gun from its hiding place and pointed it in the direction of the Baron’s head.

“Give me the negatives and all the copies you have made or I will shoot you like a rat.”

“John,” Sherlock murmured, touching his friend’s arm. He was shaking, the doctor realised.

“Your ‘friend’ has understood, my dear Doctor Watson, that there is nothing you can do but listen to my requests. The photographs may already be in someone else’s hands, ready to be released to the press, should anything happen to me.”

“Should? I will shoot you, if it’s the last thing I do, you can be certain of that. Maybe not now, but rest assured that soon you will face Satan and I am the one who will send you to him.”

“How very picturesque! And they say the British are cold and unimaginative; I can never understand why people get so emotional; and in your case, all for this ordinary specimen. The bloom is already off the rose, Watson, don’t you think?”

Sherlock moved quickly but not enough to prevent John from hitting the man’s nose with the barrel of his gun. There was a gruesome, yet in this instance satisfactory, noise of bones being broken and copious blood streaming down onto the man’s beard and clothes.

Still unruffled, the Baron took a large napkin from the drawer of a side table and dabbed at the mess.

“I should have predicted you would do that; after all, David used to say you were a brute.”

“What did you just say?” John hissed, stepping in front of Sherlock as if to protect him from further revelations.

“David Carlyle Thomas, your dead lover, the very same who is buried at Kensal Green Cemetery; it is rather a small world, isn’t it? But perhaps not, considering the circumstances; why don’t you tell your friend who introduced you to Sholto Douglas?”

It was John’s turn to be silent, his mind a frantic diorama of horrible, tormenting images.

“David Thomas and Sholto Douglas worked for you,” the detective said, in a tone devoid of emotion.

“Can such a delightful occupation be called work?” von Gloeden asked, smiling.

In the near distance, they heard a soft sound of steps.

“Come in, my beloved,” the Baron said, and for once his expression showed real feeling, the sweet bird of tenderness.

From the same nest of brocade, fresh as spring dew, appeared the exquisitely beautiful countenance of William Hardinge, his eyes blue as sapphires, and as hard.

“Doctor Watson,” he said and smiled; a stone-cold thing that all the sunshine of the equator couldn’t have infused with warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Just how evil is Wilhelm von Gloeden? We shall see...


	23. House of Knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evil unfolds its awful tale...
> 
> Also, Sherlock has one of his (many) mad ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: There is some sex, nothing major, but mind the tags anyway
> 
> Note 2: The title refers to the House in Camden where poets Paul Verlaine and Arthur Rimbaud lived briefly. They played the game Sherlock wants to indulge in here, hence the name. There is a short film about the poets' stay in London and it's called... House of Knives.  
> Incidentally, Rimbaud would have been a nearly perfect model for William Hardinge: at 16, he was having gay sex (he was topping btw) with an older (married) man, terrorising and dominating him to the point of cruelty and throwing him into such despair Verlaine almost killed him (he shot him in the wrist).

 

 _“O waves chanting magic spells,_  
_Take my heart and let it be washed clean._  
_Fully erect and soldier-like_  
_Their insults have degraded it._

 _When they'll have spit out their tobacco_  
_What will you do then, O stolen heart?_  
_There will be Dionysian hiccups_

 _When they'll have spit out their tobacco._  
_My stomach will be turning over_  
_Even if I swallow my nausea_  
_When they'll have spit out their tobacco_  
_What will you do then, O stolen heart?”_

_The Stolen Heart (excerpt - translated by Edmund White) – Arthur Rimbaud_

* * *

 

“How disappointing,” William observed, circling Sherlock like a satin-sheathed vulture.

Instinctively, John moved to stand between the two young men, but Hardinge ignored him, fingering Sherlock’s white frilled shirt, the folds of his cape and even the tip of a curl, with the appraising gaze of an auctioneer assessing the value of a disappointing lot.

When he was done he cast an incredulous gaze in John’s direction, but when he spoke he addressed the Baron. The older man had cleaned himself up and, indifferent to his broken cartilage and soiled garments, he basked in beatific calm, like an anchorite on top of a mountain.

“I can’t fathom how he could have preferred this ungainly fake-ingénue to me; some men prefer the strong, vulgar type, others the cheerful, athletic one, but those who have a liking for epicenes, I never fail to conquer them when I choose to,” said William.

Despite the undeniable vanity of the statement, the boy was clearly apologising for his failure to the man who was his lover and probably also his master.

Von Gloeden responded with an indulgent smile and a shake of the head that indicated that he too could not comprehend such a lapse of taste on anyone’s part.

“You measure everything by your distorted yardstick that does not account for deeper feelings than pride and conceit,” John spat at them; he was worried for his lover, who was pale, silent and cold as marble.

“The sentiments you attribute to this _man_ are nothing compared to the ecstasy I could have given you,” William replied, undoing the tie of his satin robe to display a statuesque body, white and perfectly modelled, pink-nippled and more than averagely endowed.

Once upon a time, John would have stopped and stared, and if allowed he would have feasted on all that magnificence; in the present, he felt only disgust, as if the fabric had been peeled away to reveal a congregation of maggots chewing on rotten meat.

“Cover yourself up, sir: you repel me,” he said, looking the boy in those strange eyes of his: a light azure that bloomed darker as if from the inside, as if a fire were igniting the cerulean until it turned into midnight blue.

“Come here, next to me, my love,” the Baron commanded, and was immediately obeyed. William sat on the arm of the same chair, dangling his bare legs to the side and reclining his torso toward the older man, who immediately placed a proprietary hand on a milky-white thigh, breathing in the fruity perfume of young, clean flesh.

“What do you want from us?” Sherlock asked; his voice was firm and his countenance unafraid.

“For a clever man, you are being unconscionably stupid, Mr Holmes. Isn’t obvious what we want? Isn’t it what your dear brother wants? Power, is the answer, my dear; the power to hold the world in our thrall, to make it dance to our tune. You have been hired by a powerful man to find an object that belongs to us. We have tried to force you to relinquish your search, but you have thwarted us, very foolishly, I may venture to add. The game is over, sir, and you have lost.”

“You want us to stop seeking Corvo’s manuscript, is that all? Why go to such length for a tawdry little novel?” Sherlock sneered.

“If you had a safety box containing the most precious stones in the universe, you wouldn’t want the combination codes to be lost or in the hands of your enemy, would you?”

“You could change the codes,” the detective suggested.

“Not if they were set in stone. But enough with the metaphors: you already know too much Mr Holmes, and to be truthful, if you weren’t who you are, you’d be dead already. I want you to find the manuscript for us and if you don’t,” the Baron said.

“If I don’t, you will circulate those photographs and destroy my reputation,” Sherlock stated. “I won’t be silenced or bought off so cheaply; do what you like, sir, I no longer care. You have only increased my appetite for justice and I won’t stop until you and your filthy organisation are annihilated.”

The Baron clapped his hands, slowly, and so did his teenage lover.

“Very impressive, my young friend; you see, William, why the dear Doctor here is so besotted with Mr Holmes: they both share the same appetite for destruction. You and I will never be that foolish, because we’ll never care as much as they do, thank heavens.” The boy nodded, taking his master’s be-ringed hand and kissing it.

“You don’t suppose we would have only one string to our bow, my dear Sherlock. I know you love riddles and puzzles, so let me pose you one. What is that you avoid yet miss when it’s not there? That you dislike yet cannot be fully parted from?”

“Myself?” the detective sneered.

“Close, both in meaning and in word,” the man replied, winking.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock murmured; and John saw the dreaded mask of ice descend on his lover’s features.

“Your brother has been a thorn in our side, and we’d love a permanent…extraction. You find us the manuscript or we eliminate the parasite that is constantly troubling us.”

“Once I give you the manuscript, you will have no reason to let him live,” the detective countered. “Besides, my brother is his own man; even I couldn’t stop him from sacrificing his life, if he deemed it worth his while.”

The Baron laughed and William joined in, with cruel glee.

“You still don’t understand,” the former sneered, but John interrupted him.

“It’s me… you want to use me as leverage, don’t you? David, Sholto, even this horrid youth here, they all have one thing in common: me. You couldn’t have predicted that Sherlock and I… how could you? And such a long time ago, even before the War… No, it’s impossible!” John exclaimed, shaking his head.

“You underestimate us at your peril, sir. Do you think a world such as ours could be changed in the space of a month or even a year? You'd have to lay the foundations, cultivate the terrain, corrupt the right people, hold as many aces in your hand as possible. It was always to be a long game and in order to win it, we had to divide people into friends and enemies. We kept the information safe, until it became useful. You, for instance: David mentioned you liked youths, but that you were loyal and faithful and wouldn’t go against the law. And when years later Sherlock Holmes becomes an obstacle, who better than a strong-willed soldier to capture his attention? A pretty young man, a hermit, with no experience and a penchant for older men; it was child’s play, really.”

“You couldn’t have known that we would have met, you couldn’t have predicted that he would come to Hove and…”

His voice petered out as he saw the pitying glances thrown his way.

“Sholto invited you to Hove and you went. He received letters that you never read,” Sherlock explained, in a cold, remote voice.

“You killed him, so that he would not stand in the way,” John murmured, caressing the gun that was back in his pocket.

“You are mistaken, Doctor. We did not touch him; after all, he was one of ours.”

“Like Corvo?” the detective offered.

Von Gloeden’s eyes darkened at the mention of that name.

“We should have known he would have betrayed us; he was always unreliable, too much of a solitary soul, with a taste for revenge when he did not get his way. He did not talk, it wasn’t his style, but he would always write and the pseudonyms he would use were as transparent as your heart, Dr. Watson. Thankfully, most of his output dealt with petty quarrels, but he must have kept the best for last, as they say, since he must have realised death was approaching.”

“But who will believe the rants of a dead man, especially one who was unknown and destitute?” Sherlock said.

“We are powerful, but not untouchable, not yet. Your client, Mr Holmes, could inflict incalculable damage if that manuscript came into his possession. He has friends in high places,” the man replied, curtly.

It was an increasingly absurd situation, John thought, discussing the merits of blackmail with a criminal who had abused Sherlock in an abominable manner and planned to use them to obtain something that could destroy their country and all they held dear. And all along, William was perched on the arm of the chair like an exotic bird, squawking with laughter whenever he felt his master required an audience, and encouraging the latter’s caresses by baring a shoulder or the crease of his groin.

“If you knew me well as you say, you'd understand that I won’t be played like a fiddle. I won’t sit down and wait for you to destroy Sherlock, piece by piece. I could kill you now, you and your little boy-slave here,” John said, getting his gun out again.

William glared at him, but the Baron was unruffled.

“You would be a dead man, Dr Watson, and so would Mr Holmes. You may not care about your own safety, but you do about your companion’s.”

“We won’t do your dirty work for you,” the blond man insisted, bullishly.

“It’s the work you have been paid to do; the only difference is we will be the beneficiary instead of your client. You will be handsomely rewarded for your efforts, by being allowed to keep your life, reputation and career.”

“A worthless recompense when the very air we breathe will be tainted,” Sherlock whispered, and his lover heard in his voice the notes of enraged despair.

John didn’t know what the rules of Masson Fox’s fairy chess were, but he suspected they were locked in a stalemate of some sort.

“Let’s get out of here before I forget my manners,” he hissed, and taking his friend by the arm, he strode towards the back exit.

They were already in what he’d named ‘the red room’, when William came up to them and, snatching a fistful of Sherlock’s hair, he pulled viciously until some curls came away in his grasp. John slapped the boy hard enough to turn his head to the side.

“Do that again, and your life won’t be worth living,” he growled.

Hardinge scowled and held his reddened cheek: a cross between a petulant child and a ferocious beast.

“Stay away from Wilhelm,” the boy intimated, staring Sherlock in the eye.

The detective walked up to him and, inches from his face, he hissed:

“You are nothing but skin and juices to him; when your looks are gone, so will he be from you.”

They left him there, panting wildly and clutching at his own face, throat and chest, like he wanted to confirm his beauty was till there, intact and indelible.

 

The London landscape was all grey ashes to Sherlock; not even the jolly sound of car horns or the sight of luxuriously appointed arcades made a difference to his darkened mind.

The past - always that strange vision that tormented him - had been the cause of the predicament they were in. Had he not been so wickedly inclined, John wouldn’t be here with him, sharing in his misery.

All was spoiled, all was lost: what he had believed to be a fateful encounter had been the result of a cruel machination, and the love that had ensued was now ruined beyond recourse.

Without saying a word, they agreed to walk home, perhaps wanting to tire their limbs as much as their minds. They kept silent and, to Sherlock, the scant distance between their bodies was a harbinger of the severance that was to come.

“It’s entirely my fault,” John said, as soon as they closed the door of their lodgings. “If I hadn’t consorted with David and Sholto, if I hadn’t replied to his summons to join him in Hove,” he continued, with mounting exasperation.

Sherlock felt cold like ice and permanently broken.

“You can still leave me. This is my case; you are free to go, back to your normal life.”

“No, no, this is not what I meant! It is for you that I worry; because of me, you have been hurt… Christ, I can’t even think on it!” John shouted, pacing up and down the sitting room.

“Of course,” the detective murmured, “the spell has been broken, since I’m no longer yours only; other eyes have seen me, other hands have touched me; I’m forever damaged, ruined. You can take your promise back; it was given under false pretences.”

The detective felt as heavy as lead, so he tiredly dragged his feet towards his study; he was barely inside, when a thought came to him, something he’d read about a long time ago, when he was still a child. All he needed was a handful of long knife-blades and a large towel. Suddenly, a wide-eyed energy seized him and guided his gestures: he rummaged inside a wooden box then plucked an old bath sheet from the back of a shelf. He rolled the knives inside the towel until they were safely and tightly packed with only the pointed tips protruded; a length of rope was used to secure the bundle with a double knot.

Before going to seek his lover, he removed his clothes and slid into an old plaid dressing gown.

 

To say that John was lost would have been a gross understatement: the air had been sucked from his lungs and the blood drained from his veins: he was as empty as a shell.

While the solution to his woes was far from apparent, and before he went to look for Sherlock, hopefully before the young man started on another infernal piece by violin and broken glass, he did what was habitual in these circumstances: he prepared a pot of tea.

The water had just finished boiling when he was assaulted by an insane-looking, half-naked Sherlock brandishing a tied package than resembled a medieval weapon.

“What in the name of…” he exclaimed.

“Throw it at me. Try to avoid my neck and femurs, because of the arteries, also my face, although even that could be…”

John took the bundle from his lover’s hands and threw it to the other side of the room, where it crashed against the ice-box door.

“Have you gone mad?” he screamed.

“These two French poets used to do it when they couldn’t cope with all the self-hatred and the misery,” the detective explained, a drugged-up look in his eyes.

“You haven’t taken anything, have you? Come here, let me see,” John said, and before the young man could react, he pulled his face closer and examined his pupils. Those beautiful iridescent eyes displayed no sign of intoxication, only pain and perturbation.

“Sherlock, my love,” he whispered, caressing the boy’s face with both hands, “the spell will never break. You are the spell, every single particle of you, now and tomorrow, and tomorrow…”

The detective had trouble breathing and John helped him by taking his mouth in a deep, wet kiss that electrified both their bodies.

“Again,” the young man pleaded, when his lover moved away; the embrace became rough and possessive, until they ended up on the floor of the sitting room, naked and slick with sweat.

 _Delicate_ , John mused, _that’s what he needs, my delightful madman_.

Slowly, he trailed a path with his tongue from collarbone to groin, flicking a nipple and circling the skin under which lay the precious casket of the boy's heart; with his lips he traced the ghosts of the marks left on that night at the temple; with his hands he caressed that beloved body, greedily, surveying every inch of it, like a mapmaker on a sacred mission.

He debated whether to suck or pump the pleasure out of his boy, but instinctively, he knew they should be face to face, so he rubbed his arousal against Sherlock’s while plunging his tongue down the young man’s throat, swallowing down his crazed, ecstasy-soaked moans.

 

“Tell me about the knives,” John asked, after he’d wiped off the combined mess of their discharge and spread a blanket over their naked bodies.

“I thought you might feel better if you punished me, if you inflicted your own marks on my skin.”

The blond man buried his hand into the thicket that was Sherlock’s hair and started stroking and rubbing lightly.

“I don’t have to mark what is already mine,” he replied, tugging a little, so that he could reach the detective’s throat and kiss it. “And that wasn’t the reason of my distress; it wasn’t on my account; you must know that is you I care about and you only.”

“I can no longer offer you the secrecy of my naked body.”

“They took that from you, by intoxicating your mind with drugs.”

The detective pondered on this and a timid smile curved his lips.

“The thing you did at the gallery, with your gun, when you smashed the Baron’s nose; that was…”

“Foolish?”

“Good; extremely good.”

“Defending the honour of my future husband, you mean? I should have shot him and to hell with the consequences,” the doctor replied, rubbing the young man’s scalp more forcefully.

“I want you here with me, not inside a filthy prison,” Sherlock remarked, half-stifling a moan.

“What should we do? Call on your brother, tell Lestrade about that glorified whorehouse, have him close it down for indecency?”

“They would murder you, my dear; you heard what the Baron said.”

“The Baron,” John snorted “And that disgusting youth with his shameless act!”

“You were right: he’s very handsome.”

“Like a diamond-encrusted tarantula.”

“A cluster of spiders…”

“Yes, my darling.”

And for the remainder of the evening and deep into the night they kept close, touching and kissing, reassuring one another that nothing would come between them.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Sherlock concocts another plan...


	24. Icarus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up and finally snaps out of it... about time too!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The info about the Benson family is mostly accurate, aside from the dates.
> 
> Note 2: There were two Hays brother, but I just kept one (writer's licence).
> 
> Note 3: This is the painting by Breughel. Spot Icarus :)

_“In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away_  
_Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may_  
_Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,_  
_But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone_  
_As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green_  
_Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen_  
_Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,_  
_Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.”_

 _Musée_ _des Beaux Arts (excerpt)-  W. H. Auden_

 

* * *

 

Sherlock woke up that morning feeling like a different man: as if metaphorical clouds had suddenly dispersed, his mind was once again working at full tilt.

His lover was the first beneficiary of this newborn clarity, as he found himself awoken by a whirlwind of sensual energy: despite his previous denials, John didn’t think twice about marking that delicious throat and the sensitive, rosy nipples; not when his boy was begging for it with such insistence. He bit Sherlock everywhere, leaving traces all over his body, soothing the aching skin with kisses and making love to it until it yielded all its wonderful juices.

“Not that I’m complaining, far from it, but what’s the cause of all this enthusiasm?” he asked after the fact, as he lay breathless with Sherlock in his arms.

“That deuced fog has evaporated, my dear. I’ve realised that I was allowing those scoundrels to set the rules of the game; I wasn’t thinking properly, because they dosed me with a powerful drug that deranged all my senses.”

“Mescaline?”

“You.”

“What?”         

John exclaimed, kissing his lover’s temple and grinning a little.

“Well, yes, didn’t you hear what that ghastly Baron said? They had planned this in advance and great detail. Because they have vast experience in youths and their preferences, they correctly predicted you and I would be great together. What they had not guessed was that another kind of sentiment would bloom between us.”

“Because they don’t have any knowledge of it, they don’t believe in its existence,” the blond man added, caressing the detective’s chest down to his stomach, eliciting a shiver of pleasure.

“Obviously; and because of that, they also do not know that, while hatred and the greed for power may be strong and destructive, love is a much more vicious motivator.”

“Love that moves the sun and the other stars,” John recited, smiling at the little gasp of surprise that came from his lover’s lips.

“Yes, my dear, like Dante wrote, love can move the planets, but it can also cause unspeakable damage to an already unbalanced mind.”

“You are no longer talking about yourself, I hope.”

“Not exactly,” Sherlock replied, his eyes aglow with excitement. “What have we disregarded in all this, taken as we were by the dastardly machinations of Moriarty and his lot?”

John shook his head, waiting for his companion to explain.

“Two very important things, John: Sussex and the identity of the boy who was with Rolfe in my so-called hallucination. Also, who killed Sholto? The Baron denied it was their handiwork and I believe him, as they had no reason to be rid of him when he could still be useful.”

The detective reached out for his cigarette case that lay upon the bedside table; he lit two cigarettes and gave one to his lover, looking deliciously debauched as he did so.

“Do you think these elements are interlinked?” the doctor asked.

“Yes, I’m pretty sure of it. I have been foolish enough to let them confuse me with their smoke and mirrors strategy, but even they have not seen that there’s another sort of intelligence at work, or should I say insanity?”

“I’m not sure I understand, but let me just ask, what will we do next?”

“We'll go see a man you have yet to meet; a rather unlucky American; a penniless poet who has not lost his good disposition despite the slings and harrows of outrageous fortune.”

John exhaled two plumes of smoke from his nostrils in lieu of disapproval.

“Should I be jealous?” he asked, half-seriously.

“I gave him my entire supply of cigarettes, last time.”

The doctor opened the case and examined its contents.

“We’ll need more this time; I don’t want this O’Sullivan chap to get any strange ideas about other possessions of yours he might crave.”

Sherlock broke into peals of laughter.

“Oh my dear, do you really imagine I would offer him the shirt off my back?”

John prised the cigarette from Sherlock’s hand and balanced it, together with his own, on the ashtray set on the night-stand. He then pinned his lover to the mattress, pressing down on him, chest to chest; crucifying him there like a tousled San Sebastian sans arrows.

“Over my dead body,” he declared, and kissed the laughter from the smoke-filled mouth.

 

Despite his exaggerate display of jealousy, John was glad that Sherlock liked O’Sullivan, since he soon realised that the man was indeed very pleasant.

He’d suggested they purchase a bottle of quality brandy to offer the American, in addition to the cigarettes. It did seem only fair that he would get something in return for risking his life by giving them information.

They found him frying a solitary egg over a stove, which was to be eaten with the meagre accompaniment of pickles and brown bread.

After apologising for the inconvenience and being amiably rebuffed, they were asked to sit down and drink tea with him and to please not bother with useless ceremonies.

“I imagine you are still investigating my old friend Rolfe,” he said, sipping the liquor the two men had brought him.

“We are wondering if you could help us find the name of another boy; you told me about Eric Gleeson White and Cecil Castle, but I was wondering whether you knew of other youths that he might have known or tutored, in another part of the country.”

The American pondered the question as he swirled the brown liquid inside the glass, staring at it as if entranced. His green eyes shone like a cat’s and when he looked up at Sherlock, it was obvious that he’d remembered something.

“There was this boy named Malcolm. I remember his name because of Macbeth, of course. The surname escapes me, but Rolfe tutored him at some point, this much I know. There was a sort of scandal about it and he was forced to leave the boy's house in great haste. Perhaps you can find out more about him and his family  by contacting Oscott College. I’m sure Rolfe asked the incumbent Bishop of Shrewsbury for a recommendation.”

John gasped, attracting a shrewd look from the poet.

“He was quite a harmless old man, despite the title; nothing like the current holder of the post, who is an old acquaintance of mine,” O’Sullivan explained, smiling wickedly.

“Moriarty was always rather unpleasant, I take it,” Sherlock said.

“He was mellifluous and malign, if you pardon a writer’s silly alliteration. He was the covetous sort, even though he tried to keep it hidden; prone to jealousy and with a tendency to commit to memory people’s foibles in order to goad them whenever he saw fit to.”

“And yet he’s become a Bishop while Rolfe was expelled from the Church,” John observed.

The American laughed pleasantly.

“Such are the vagaries of human life, my dear man. While Rolfe was a man who ultimately cared more about his principles than his career, Moriarty is the exact opposite. It’s the same for every career: he who wants it the most, will achieve it.”

“The end justifying the means?” said Sherlock

“Machiavelli has much to answer for,” O’Sullivan concurred, lighting a cigarette.

The detective took one for himself and, as smoke filled the tiny, dingy room, he asked,

“Why didn’t you tell me about Moriarty and this Malcolm boy when I first came to see you? And please, don’t tell me it’s because I didn’t ask you.”

The man let a few instants pass: he took another sip of brandy, inhaled and exhaled a couple of times then made up his mind.

“When you don’t have a real occupation and you suffer from enforced idleness due to poverty, you spend most of the time reminiscing and reading. Victor Grayson has disappeared; you came to ask about Rolfe and a lady named Julia Redfern has been attacked in her home, or so it’s been reported by a local newspaper. When you visited me, I decided to keep some information to myself, merely in order to not get into trouble with old acquaintances; who knows – I thought – I may need their help one day. But if there is the slightest chance of these events being connected… well, I could be silent no longer.”

“Is there anything else we should know?”

“Just be very careful and remember not to lose sight of the minutiae. When a large canvas draws your eye, it’s easy to miss the many little figures in the background; same as the all-important fall of Icarus goes completely unnoticed in the eponymous painting by Brueghel.”

“I was telling John only this morning I had this feeling of having missed something vital and you’ve perfectly described the essence of that sensation.”

O’Sullivan gazed first at the blond man then at the detective.

“These are the scant rewards of being an eternal spectator. You two, on the other hand, are in the midst of the action. I wish you the best of luck and please, take very good care of yourselves,” he concluded.

 

“We should have brought him something to eat. We could lend him Mrs Hudson for a while; she’d fatten him up in no time,” John commented later.

“She doesn’t have any effect on me,” his friend replied, seeking a cab to take them home.

“That’s because you resist her attempts, but you won’t succeed with me.”

“I assumed you liked your detectives lean.”

“Singular: only one detective. And yes, I do, but within limits.”

A car finally stopped; they spent the short journey to Baker Street discussing the destitute poet whom they both liked and wanted to help.

 

Oscott College were as scrupulous in preserving private documents as they were unwilling to part with them.

Sherlock was forced to ask Lestrade for help and, one official Scotland Yard phone call later, Sherlock acquired the information he needed: the boy’s full name was Malcolm Hay and his last known residence was in Aberdeen.

The Inspector still had no news concerning Victor Grayson, but – he said – they were all doing their best to find the missing politician.

“I doubt they’ll find Grayson alive,” said Sherlock, composing Hay’s number.

Naturally, the boy no longer resided in his mother’s house, but in Edinburgh; he was a teacher in a renowned Catholic school.

Since they had no intention of going to Scotland, the matter had to be resolved by telephone. Luckily, Malcolm Hay was a simple, unsuspecting soul and, once informed about the seriousness of the matter, he immediately volunteered the entirety of what he remembered about Rolfe.

“He was a great tutor and I was prostrate with grief when he was sent away. I recall that Mother refused to give me his address and told me that I had to forget everything about him. I never knew why, except,” he hesitated.

“Except?”

“He was a photographer and asked me whether I wanted to model; I said yes and he took photos of me in my bathing costume; I wonder if that was the bone of contention; whether Mother found the evidence of our crime,” he jested.

“Was there no other impropriety on the man’s part; anything that you recall?”

“After he was given his marching orders, I know he found another position. The only thing I can tell you is that it was in Sussex, as I saw the stamp on the letter and wondered how far it was from Scotland. At the time, London was as alien to me as the Moon. I’m afraid that is all I can tell you about Rolfe. Perhaps one other thing, but don’t take it as gospel as it was the impression of a timid child: Rolfe was capable of inspiring vivid sentiments; my mother disliked him intensely and I adored him. I even wrote to Oscott – he’d told me he’d been there to study – to enquire on his whereabouts.”

Sherlock thanked him and rang off.

After he’d relayed every word to John, they were both excited and disappointed about what they’d discovered.

“Surely it shouldn’t be difficult to find out where he went if he wrote about his life in his own novels,” John commented, but Sherlock was not as positive.

“He does talk at length about people who displeased him, but not as frequently about those he had no quarrels with.”

“And what about Maundy Gregory: he may know something about it.”

Sherlock had started on his favourite thinking pastime: pacing the room while mumbling through gritted teeth.

“There is something I have to do,” he muttered, indicating the direction of his study.

“You don’t mind, do you?” he asked, as an afterthought.

“Of course not,” John replied, smiling fondly.

 

The last thing either of them expected was that they would find what they were looking for in the manner that they did.

While Sherlock was buried inside his lair, John decided to pay another visit to Ms Redfern. She was no longer in hospital, but since he was the doctor who had taken her there, the matron had no qualms in giving a physician the patient’s address.

Ms Redfern lived in a small flat in Camden, not far from the other side of Regents Park, so John decided to get some exercise and walk through the park.

The barren, stern beauty of it filled him with peace and a clear determination; he could almost see the future; how inextricably woven his and Sherlock’s life were going to be and how much he had come to depend on his lover’s proximity. Even as he was enjoying his time alone, part of him was yearning for the detective’s presence, his acerbic wit and the softness of his touch.

“I’m done for,” he mused, smiling to himself.

Julia Redfern’s lodgings were a perfect representation of the woman herself: furnished with extravagant, oriental pieces, including a carved mahogany ottoman covered with silk cushions, on which she was sitting when he arrived. The place was filled with plants and flowers, resembling a foreign sylvan landscape in which this strange, vibrant creature had been transported as if by magic.

She didn’t show any surprise upon seeing him; on the contrary, it was as if she’d been expecting his arrival.

“I was just preparing a pot of liquorice tea,” she quipped, offering him a cup of a strong smelling, inky brew. He tasted it then quickly dropped three sugar cubes into the tall mug, much to the woman’s amusement.

“You seem well,” he said.

“I feel like myself again; my vision was somewhat obscured, but now I can see clearly again. There was something I wanted to tell you about that night at the Club. You must know I cannot tell you about the participants, Ms Overgaard would not allow it, but I’m sure she would have nothing against me telling who founded the Ghost Club. It’s been kept secret for a very good reason, but I feel the time for caution has come and gone, don’t you Doctor? We must always make sure we don’t let the hand of the devil hold then pen that writes our destiny.”

“I agree with you completely, madam,” he replied, grimacing as he swallowed his tea.

“I’m sure you remember I mentioned Sussex during the séance; I don’t usually remember what I say during my visions, but this I do recall. Well, the Ghost Club was founded by none other than the now Archbishop of Canterbury, Mr Edward White Benson. Their home is called Tremens and is in West Sussex, in a village called Lindfield.”

“And you think this will bring us closer to the truth?”

“I am sure of it. Tell your friend and I’m sure he will find the connection,” he said, giving him a vague, distant smile that told him his time was up.

“You will take care of yourself,” he said, as he prepared to take his leave.

“Yes, Dr Watson, I will be leaving for France soon. I have family there and they have been asking to see me for a long time. Relatives and siblings are very important, don’t you think? I’m sure your companion knows what I mean; do not forget to remind him.”

“I will,” he replied, even though he did not understand what she meant.

 

When he entered 221b, Sherlock came to greet him with impatient glee; he was burning bright like a fallen star, still sizzling with the energy that had propelled its trajectory.

“Lindfield,” he declared, like the oracle of Delphi.

John couldn’t restrain himself: he took that glowing, marvellous face in his hands and kissed Sherlock breathless.

“I was reading Rolfe’s Hadrian when I reached the point where he described a place the main character visits in youth, during a short holiday; the masses of green grassy waves as they shook in the summer breeze, their sea-like motion, the pointy stumps of trees in distance resembling the masts of ships: it is as close to a marine landscape as you could get without actually being at the seaside. This description reminded me of the country estate of my cousin in Haywards Heath: we were there once or twice, but I did not recall much about my visits, except the boredom and the slow trickle of time. What I do remember though is a similar landscape to that described by Corvo, and of course Lindfield, which he mentioned, is on the outskirts of Haywards Heath.”

“Siblings and relatives,” John murmured, and explained about his visit to Ms Redfern.

“Mr Edward White Benson’s family is a very odd one, so I have heard. His wife is the independent sort and his children… oh, John! The séance… what did she say? 'I need to have a word with dear Arthur'… siblings… oh, I have been blind as a bat!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone is about to get into real trouble...at last.


	25. Where No Fear Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Who is Arthur? Let's find out, shall we?
> 
> Oh, and warning for sexy times, so mind the tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The description of the Ambassador Club - including the attire of the guards - is as accurate as possible.
> 
> Note 2: The episode narrated by Benson about his brother's childhood is taken from his Book about Fear.

_“We cannot recognise the dark tower, to which in the story Childe Roland came, by any description. We must go there ourselves; and not till we feel the teeth of the trap biting into us, do we see that it was exactly in such a place that we had been warned that it would be laid.”_

_Where No Fear was - A Book about Fear (excerpt) – Arthur Christopher Benson_

 

* * *

 

 

“Would you mind telling me who is this Arthur you want to have a word with?”

John asked, mystified.

Sherlock ignored him and strode to his study; when he came back he was holding a copy of Debrett’s. He quickly leafed through it and when he found what he was looking for, he nearly jumped on the spot, like a child opening his presents on Christmas day.

“Here, look!” he exclaimed, showing John the page dedicated to the Benson family.

“Arthur Christopher Benson… Arthur, I still don’t understand” the blond man said.

Sherlock barely contained his impatience, but deigned to explain.

“The night of the séance, there was a man with grey hair and a moustache, remember? Julia Redfern left us and went to talk to him. She wouldn’t tell us his full name, but she must have thought the first one was good enough, considering his father is the founder of the Ghost Club. Because of what happened to her at Ms Overgaard’s house we were waylaid, almost fatally.”

“So, wait… you are saying that Benson knew Rolfe and that he’s involved in this case? And what about Moriarty, von Gloeden and that lot: do you think he’s got anything to do with them?”

“Despite his grey hair, he’s about your age or slightly older and he has two younger brothers. We have to talk to him. As for the rest of the story; like I said earlier, there are two different intelligences – or insanities – at work.”

Sherlock had gone to his room to dress and John followed him there, trying to not get distracted by the half-naked body in front of him.

“How come there is no trace of Benson’s name in any of Rolfe’s works?” he asked, moving to the window, so he could look outside rather than at his enticing lover.

“I don’t know for sure, but I wager that he wrote about that episode of his life in the novel whose manuscript we are chasing.”

“If Benson senior is the Archbishop of Canterbury, surely Moriarty will know him personally.”

“Maybe, maybe not: let’s not forget they belong to different orders.”

“I still can’t believe he founded the Ghost Club: he being the leader of the Church of England and all! He must know what sorts of things happen at those séances and the kind of people who frequent them,” John exclaimed; he’d been astonished when Ms Redfern had told him, but until Sherlock had accepted it as fact, he’d not allowed himself to believe it.

“I’m sure there is a plausible reason, my dear; it could be that he needed to obtain a list of all the people who tried to find an alternative to religion in the guise of spiritualism; or maybe it’s a hobby of his, one never knows with these eccentrics,” the detective replied, and there was something sardonic in his tone, that forced John to turn around and face him.

Sherlock was full dressed, but his dove-grey silk shirt was still unbuttoned and he’d opened his arms wide, like a nobleman waiting for his valet to complete his toilette.

“I thought you wanted to go out."

He licked his lips, but stayed put. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed, and John was lost.

“Don’t undress me… just have me a little,” the young man whispered, as his lover pounced on him.

“You devil,” was the reply, muffled by the kisses and bites that John was pressing along the length of his friend’s throat.

He knew what Sherlock wanted, judging by the way he was arching his back; at the first touch of tongue on the tip of one nipple, the detective shuddered and whimpered, a gasped, drawn-out ‘aahh’ that spurred John into frantic action: he cupped his hands around the lean chest to keep it in place and went to work on his boy’s erect nipples until they were sore and livid, and Sherlock’s entire body was pervaded by shivers.

He had bitten and scraped them in a relentless crescendo and only when he felt his lover tremble, he mellowed: the nips became suckles and licks, alternating between cat-like flicks and full-tongue lapping. When he finally kissed them softly, with the barest amount of pressure and the caress of his hot breath, he felt a sudden flurry of movement and smiled: Sherlock was undoing the placket of his own trousers, desperate to get at his arousal.

“Have you a little, eh?” he joked and the detective uttered a sound of lustful impatience that John had never heard before.

“My darling, please, let me,” he said, and successfully helped his lover extract a very angry erection from its prison of fabric.

“Let us make sure your garments stay unsoiled,” he murmured, before going down on his knees.

The next few minutes were a blur of pure joy: devouring his boy’s dripping cock after having feasted on his nipples was the most glorious of banquets, and the way Sherlock undulated and keened under his ministrations pushed him to redouble his efforts; at some point, the boy’s hands came up and timidly urged the blond head closer; John took the hint and swallowed the erection down, until his nose was buried in musky, wiry hairs. He inhaled wildly, wanting his blood to be filled with the scent of his lover’s sex.

“John, John,” the detective begged, and it was both prayer and warning: in the following instant, his member thickened and with a final thrust, he pulsed his warm stream down his lover’s throat.

“I did have you more than a little, but your beautiful clothes are unscathed,” John commented later, still hoarse from his previous efforts.

Sherlock was red-faced and dazzle-eyed, but his softened penis had been re-tucked in and his shirt was neatly buttoned up, while his companion was not as tidy.

“I’ll just be a moment,” John said, and went to his room to change his undergarment and trousers.

“Apologies, dear; I didn’t mean to,” the young man said later, as they walked out into Baker Street.

“I rather hope you _did_ mean to,” John said, laughing. “It was a lovely distraction, and much needed after the drama of the last few days, if you ask me.”

“I should have done more; I just stood there and…”

“You took it beautifully, my darling. Anything more…participative and your garments would have been severely compromised.”

“Do you envisage doing more of that in the future? Should I purchase some ordinary outfits for the purpose?” the detective asked, seriously.

“I wouldn’t want you to know when it’s about to happen; where would be the fun in that?”

“Yes, I see, yes,” Sherlock replied, colouring a little.

“Where are we going, exactly?” John asked, to spare him further blushes.

“Would you believe that Mr Arthur Benson is a member of Maundy Gregory’s Ambassador Club?”

“At this point, I doubt anything could surprise me.”

They stopped in front of 26 Conduit Street, a tall building just off Regent Street; there was a uniformed guard at the front door and two coronets adorning the brickwork next to it; inside, there were men in velvet knee-breeches greeting the guests.

John arched his eyebrows at the sight and Sherlock leaned close to his ear and whispered,

“A small surprise, perhaps?” which made his companion laugh.

The interior was replete with drapes and elegant furnishings, the prevailing hue being Rose du Barry.

A military gentleman in black tie approached them discreetly and once Sherlock identified himself and John, the man’s attitude became deferential; evidently, Maundy Gregory had informed his staff that in his absence ever courtesy should be paid to the detective and his colleague.

“We are here to speak with Mr Arthur Benson; we know he’s a member of the Ambassador and we were hoping to find him here.”

“Unfortunately Mr Benson is not with us at present, but if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I will try and see if I can be of help. Will you have lunch, maybe, in the meantime? We have a delightful roast pheasant with truffles on the menu today,” the man said, smiling at John, as if he discerned the ex-soldier in him.

Sherlock made a moue of distaste at the mention of food and, without further ado, they were guided into the library; a solemn affair with oak-panelled walls, stained glass windows and bound copies of Punch.

Seeing that it was lunch-time the room was empty, so they felt free to explore it.

“It’s like the inside of a cathedral,” John noted, and it was his turn to frown.

“I read somewhere that this Club has a direct line to the House of Commons. Not literally, I hope.”

They heard the door open and close softly, like everything seemed to be inside that mausoleum.

“Brother dear,” a well-known voice said.

“You were saying?” John told Sherlock, who gave him a wry smile.

“I assume you were stuffing yourself with truffles,” the detective said, staring pointedly at his brother’s stomach.

“Most of us take a dim view of self-starvation, but I’d rather not discuss my alimentary habits with you. I heard you want to see Mr Arthur Benson and I wondered why exactly. The dear man is perfectly sound, Sherlock; a valuable member of society with no skeletons inside his armoire.”

Sherlock plucked a cigarette from its case and lit it, making a grand show of exhaling the maximum possible amount of smoke in his brother’s face.

Mycroft stood his ground, but his nose twitched at the unpleasant smell.

“Aren’t they all ‘valuable members of society’, these people you consort with? No matter what base and vile behaviours they might indulge in, you’d still defend them just as long as they belong to your _class_ ,” the detective said, his entire face crumpled in disgust. At that, his brother finally reacted.

“Nothing could be farther from the truth, my dear,” he said, sternly. “I never pardon vulgarity or evil, unless it’s for the common good. And even then, I wouldn’t forgive anyone who’d hurt you or your friends; you must know that.”

The younger Holmes stood still, his mouth open and his cigarette dangling idly between his fingers.

“Where can we find Arthur Benson? We just want to interrogate him, that’s all,” interjected John.

Mycroft gazed at him, but did not reply. When he spoke, his words were cryptic, at least for John.

“They have always been a slightly peculiar family, the Bensons. Religious, most of them, but not overzealous; attracted to the arts, especially literature, but also to the otherworldly, the spiritual and the unknown; I wouldn’t say they are exactly unhinged, but there is a streak of something obsessive, an excessive penchant for justice in some instances, or a tendency to self-abasement and worship of the unworthy in others.”

Sherlock snorted smoke out his nostrils, galvanised back to life by his brother’s description.

“Are you not perchance talking about our family?” he said, but Mycroft did not react at the jibe.

“If you really wish to see him, I wrote down his address here,” he said, holding out a piece of folded paper in John’s direction. The doctor took it and put it in his pocket without glancing at its content.

“But,” the older man continued, “This may be a case for letting sleeping dogs lie; to be accurate, in this instance the hounds have been set free and it could work to our collective advantage.”

“ _Our_ advantage?” Sherlock sneered.

“Yes, yours too, little brother; I’m confident that after giving my suggestion due consideration you will agree with me.”

“I doubt it.”

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed, “that’s my cue to leave. Dr Watson,” he said, shaking John’s hand warmly. The latter responded, despite being taken by surprise.

“What did he mean by that?” he asked, once the older man had left.

“He’s threatening me!” the detective fumed, stubbing out his cigarette with petulance. “Forcing his views on me, hoping I will forget about the entire thing. Or perhaps this is a strategy… yes!” he exclaimed, jumping on the spot again and making John smile. “He wants me to keep digging and provoke an avalanche. What shall I do? Oh, clever Mycroft! If I do as he says, he will gloat and if I do the opposite, still he will gloat!”

At this juncture, his friend burst into full-throated laughter.

“Sibling rivalry,” he gasped. “You can be enchantingly funny, my dear.”

“There’s nothing funny about my problems with Mycroft,” Sherlock scowled. “I wonder why he shook your hand; unless he wants to recruit you for his side.”

“There’s no recruiting me, darling; firstly, I’m no longer a soldier and secondly, I’m on your side, for better or worse.”

“Till death us do part?”

“Yes, my darling,” John replied, kissing the palm of his fiancé’s hand.

“Do you think we should see Arthur Benson?” Sherlock murmured, flexing his fingers.

“Yes, I do; we have been hired to do one thing only: find Rolfe’s missing manuscript. And that we haven’t done yet.”

“Quite right, my dear; let’s get out of this infected cathedral, out into the Mycroft-free air.”

“You could have been an actor, my love,” John quipped, earning another scowl from his beloved.

 

The address on the paper said 47, Dover Street and since it was nearly around the corner from the Club, they decided to walk along the maze of side alleys that connected Regent Street to Piccadilly. They avoided the Mayor gallery, that awful place where their world had been turned upside down and reality had gone through the looking glass and become something else entirely; something corrupted, poisonous and devoid of hope.

When the manservant ushered them in, they found Mr Arthur Christopher Benson in his study, writing on a leather-bound book. He wore a rimless pince-nez and his hair was neatly parted in the middle but bore the traces of the fingers that must have brushed through it several times.

“Gentlemen,” he said in a booming tenor voice, “Holmes, we didn’t have time to talk that night at Pagani’s. I hope it was nothing serious; it does happen sometimes, to people who are not used to spiritualism. Please sit down. Shall I ring for coffee?” he said, almost crushing them with the enthusiasm of his hospitality.

They sat down on a worn Chesterfield slotted between two tall bookshelves, feeling like they were going to be crushed a second time.

Once the hot drinks were served, their host became more talkative.

“I guess you’d like to know why I was at that séance. The truth is I have lost my brother Robert,” he said; then, unpredictably, he broke into an almost alarming peal of laughter. “Apologies, but I reminded myself of Lady Bracknell with that statement. Let me start from the beginning, which as writer I should be well accustomed to: soon after graduation from Cambridge, my brother Robert Hugh – some of us call him by his second name, just for your information – departed for a trip to the Middle East. It was understood that he would be ordained a priest as soon as he came back from his journey. He was due back six months ago, but he seems to have disappeared without a trace. Father has forbidden us to involve the police or even a detective such as you, Mr Holmes, for fear of a scandal. Mother is too taken with her dear friend Lucy and my siblings are too, let’s say, _immersed_ in their own lives to care. Besides, Robert has always been the peculiar sort,” he concluded.

“How do you mean?” John asked.

“When he was a child, he could never be persuaded by any bribes or entreaties to go into a dark room to fetch anything out. Nothing would induce him. I remember that he was catechised at the tea-table as to what he expected to find, to which he replied at once, with a horror-stricken look and a long stammer, ‘B—b—b—bloodstained corpses!’ I know he’s experimented with mesmerism and that he writes ghost stories in his spare time. Sometimes I suspect Father created that wretched Ghost Club to keep an eye on Robert.”

“Was it your father who advised you to attend a séance?” Sherlock asked.

Benson shook his head and guffawed.

“It was all my doing, really. I was at my wits’ end, so even that absurd thing was better than nothing. These days meetings are not that frequent, but I was lucky that Julia had had one of her so-called visions.”

“Do you know Ms. Redfern?”

“Yes, she’s a friend of Mother’s. I was surprised when she mentioned Sussex, although frankly, I was hoping she’d reveal Robert’s whereabouts.”

“Did you know Frederick Rolfe?”

Benson’s expression did not undergo any major change, but his eyes were shining.

“You have to remember that I am over ten years older than Robert. When he was still a kid, I was already at Cambridge. And our family is not of the conventional kind, as I am sure you already know. I vaguely recall that one summer a tutor was hired to look after him; I was away and so were my siblings and father, if I remember correctly. My mother had just met Lucy; yes, it was that very summer,” he said, wistfully.

“Is there any way to find out the name of that tutor?” John asked.

“I suppose you could ask Mother or Father, and I wish you the best of luck with your endeavour,” the man replied, with a wicked glint in his eye.

“Do you know a man called Ambrose James Moriarty?”

Benson grimaced, eloquently.

“The Bishop of Shrewsbury? Not personally, but I have heard a great deal about him from Father. I never imagined the old man to be quite so vicious; mind you, he was always rather stern, but never unjust. I don’t know the details of what happened, but I suspect Moriarty was trying to convince Robert to defect to the other side, the Roman Catholics.”

“What did your brother think?” the detective asked

The older man sighed, combing a hand through his hair.

“What did Robert think? That is the question, as old Will Shakespeare would say. I have never known him well enough to be able to solve that puzzle. Dear Mr Holmes, when you are the elder brother of a problematic boy, you are constantly anxious; always wondering: should I meddle or should I leave him alone? Is it right to look after him or will he feel stifled and rail at you? Let me assure you that it is not an easy business.”

John winked at Sherlock, who was in the throes of a providential cough.

“May I ask you what is it that you are writing?” the doctor asked, as he was patting his friend’s back to ease his discomfort.

“It’s an essay about fear. Life is already so short and complicated that we shouldn’t allow fear to cripple it further. We should face fear head-on, because more often than not, there’s nothing to be afraid of but fear itself.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” John concurred.

“I would ask you to help me find Robert, but I suppose you already are on the case,” Benson said, shaking their hands as they took their leave.

“Yes, I think your brother is in possession of something that we want,” the detective replied.

“Before you go, a word of warning: one thing I know about Robert is that he’s unpredictable; one day he was going to take orders and the next, out of the blue, he wrote to us he was going to the Middle East; do not discount any assumption, however absurd or even dangerous it may seem. I told you he used to be afraid as a child, but I believe that now he knows no fear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Benson family was truly an oddity. Arthur here is the one who wrote the words to the song Land of Hope and Glory and his mother Mary (nicknamed Ben... I know) had many lesbian relationships while married to the Archbishop of Canterbury, including a long-lasting one with Lucy Tait (who was the daughter of a former Archbishop of Canterbury); Mary's daughter Maggie (a famous Egyptologist) was so incensed about this that she tried to kill Miss Tait and had to be placed in a mental hospital. Her mother, undaunted, did not break up the relationship. And these are just a few examples. You will know more about Robert Hugh Benson in the chapters to follow, and believe me he was one strange man.


	26. Phoenixes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some die, some experience la petite mort (mind your tags).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: As I said before in an earlier chapter, Epithalamion is a poem written to celebrate a wedding.
> 
> Note 2: I know very little of forensic pathology in general and even less of the 1920s UK one, so please forgive my errors. However, I have checked and dental records were definitely already in use for identity confirmation.

_“For thou this day couplest two phoenixes ;_  
_Thou makst a taper see_  
_What the sun never saw, and what the ark_  
_—Which was of fouls and beasts the cage and park—_  
_Did not contain, one bed contains, through thee ;_  
_Two phoenixes, whose joined breasts_  
_Are unto one another mutual nests,_  
_Where motion kindles such fires as shall give_  
_Young phoenixes, and yet the old shall live ;_  
_Whose love and courage never shall decline,_  
_But make the whole year through, thy day, O Valentine.”_

_Epithalamion (Excerpt) - John Donne_

 

They had returned home and were about to plan their next strategic move, between tea and Chelsea buns, when Lestrade had rung.

“The Inspector said they found the recent remains of a body in St. Margaret’s crypt: a man whose face has been disfigured," Sherlock announced.

“Is it Grayson?” asked John, trying to contain his excitement.

“Yes, I should think so. Say, isn’t there a way you could be prevailed upon taking part in the autopsy?”

The blond man couldn’t help the smile that came to his lips.

“You would like to be present and possibly get hold of some samples, wouldn't you?”

“Don’t be obvious; of course I’d like to! When would I get the chance again to partake in the dismembering of a representative of the political classes? Probably not until my brother shuffles off his mortal coil.”

“You wouldn’t,” John started then shook his head at his own naivety. “What am I saying? Yes, you most definitely would. Isn’t Lestrade happy to have you there?”

The detective pouted and shrugged his shoulders.

“He wouldn’t mind, but Dr. Anderson dislikes me and he’s the one in charge of proceedings.”

“And why does he dislike you, my dear? Did you perchance insult him?”

“I pointed out a mistake he made in the case of a mysterious death. He insisted it was heart failure, but I noticed a colouring of the nails that was consistent with digitalis poisoning. I was right, obviously.”

“Obviously; perhaps next time a bit of diplomacy will serve your cause more than know-it-all effrontery.”

“I will never know, as I am no longer allowed in his presence,” Sherlock replied.

The frown on his face made John smile, but the doctor found that he couldn’t stand his lover being denied something that he wanted and that made him happy. In one revelatory instant, he understood what parents felt when they had to disappoint their children, and it was a complex, intense and uneasy sentiment.

“Alright then; if this Anderson chap has no objections to my presence, I will do it. Should I call Lestrade?”

The detective’s expression turned sheepish.

“You’ve already told him I would do it,” he said, pretending to be annoyed.

“I expected you to put up a better fight,” was the candid reply.

“I shall do better next time,” John said, kissing his lover’s lips. “What is it that you wish to acquire?”

“Samples of his hair, fingernails and of some of the particles of dust on his body: since the cause of death is almost certain, Anderson won’t bother with the details. I would like to know whether he died there or if he’s been murdered elsewhere and then taken to St. Margaret’s.”

“I wonder whether Moriarty is still in London. I would feel better if he’d gone back to his parish or whatever his residence is called.”

“You disliked him from the start.”

John shuddered and acquiesced.

“His eyes have no warmth or depth at all, have you noticed? Like puddles of ink or the gaze of a lizard; besides, he lusted after you, a fact which alone would earn him my eternal scorn,” he said.

Sherlock’s cheeks became the same Rose du Barry shade as the Ambassador Club’s interior.

“He didn’t; he wanted to let us know that he was aware of our relationship.”

“Nothing had really happened yet,” John said, lifting his lover’s hand to his lips and kissing it.

“You were protective of me; it was obvious to anyone who was interested in finding out,” the detective explained, inching closer to his companion.

“Right,” the latter said, clearing his throat. “I better go and see Lestrade, before things take an interesting turn here. What will you do while I am at the Yard? Please try to not get into scrapes; your wound’s barely healed.”

The detective rolled his eyes and snorted.

“I am your husband-to-be, not your ward: I shall do as I please, as long as it’s not unduly dangerous.”

“I fear your definition of dangerous does not coincide with mine,” John said, but did not insist, as he trusted Sherlock had learned his lesson after the shooting.

 

Philip Anderson was not a likeable man, John thought.

He’d suspected Sherlock might have been exaggerating because of his obvious bias, but in truth the pathologist was as pleasant as a crown of thorns.

Small in stature and slight of figure, he had mousy hair and prominent eyes, a fair complexion prone to reddening when agitation of spirit occurred, and a too conspicuous set of teeth for his minute face; all in all, he reminded John of a disgruntled squirrel; jealous of his work as the animal was of his nuts.

When Lestrade introduced them, Anderson was already wearing gloves so he had an excuse for not shaking John’s hand; he cast a scornful glance around the room, as if the mortuary itself were responsible for this intruder’s outrage.

John prepared himself and, after donning a pair of gloves, he took a long look at the uncovered body on the slab and examined it in silence.

“The Inspector told me that the body was unclothed and unshod when they found it; I can see the phalanxes in both hands have been fractured and the face wholly disfigured, jaw included. Were you able already to establish a preliminary time of death?” he said, after a while.

The man ignored his question for question for so long, he was about to ask it again.

“Between three and five days before discovery is my estimate; as you may be aware, it is nearly impossible to be accurate when the conditions are so unfavourable,” the acidic voice replied.

Unfavourable indeed, poor sod, John mused, thinking of the victim.

“He was a man of middle age and apparent good health. No visible scarring, decent muscular condition, no excess adipose tissue: an average specimen, in my opinion. I’d wager this examination will be utterly redundant.”

The blond man was about to reply in as scathing a way as he could afford considering he was only a guest, when his attention was attracted by an orbicular object in a kidney dish: it was covered in matter, dust and blood.

“Is it one of the victim’s eyes?”

Anderson glanced briefly at the content of the tray and scowled.

“We can’t be sure; it’s likely, but in no way certain yet.”

“May I take a closer look?”

“Are you an expert in optical surgery?” the man said, his tone dripping with disdain.

“Hardly,” was the curt answer.

He felt a pricking of thumbs of the Macbeth sort, a certainty of evil being close at hand.

The pathologist was already using his scalpel on the victim’s torso, so he nodded distractedly.

John used the smallest brush at his disposal to clean the globular organ, collecting the discarded particles in one of the stoppered phials he’d brought with him.

A gasp escaped his lips, causing the other doctor to stop in his tracks and glance up at him.

“What is the matter?” the latter enquired, doing nothing to conceal his annoyance.

“A puddle of ink,” John murmured, and before Anderson’s impatience turned to ire, he explained, “I’m not sure whether Lestrade told of you of his suspicions concerning the identity of this man.”

“He mentioned Victor Grayson, but he advised me to keep an open mind. We are waiting for his dentist to release his records.”

“Perhaps I better stop him before the news spreads further afield; this is not Grayson, but another man altogether. I would recognise this eye anywhere: it belonged to the Bishop of Shrewsbury: Ambrose James Moriarty.”

Anderson’s face coloured a worrying shade of puce and his eyes bulged, threatening to join the one in the kidney dish.

“What, how can you be sure?” he spluttered.

“I met him and if you had, you’d be certain too,” John said.

Now that he knew what to look for, he observed the body more closely: the shape of the neck, the wrists and what was left of the ears, and yes, he was adamant.

“You can continue with your redundant procedure, naturally. But I will go and inform Lestrade before a diplomatic incident occurs. I will take this with me,” he said, placing the eye in a sterilised container that he’d extracted from his leather bag.

Anderson protested vehemently in his shrill, grating voice, but John ignored him and swiftly walked away.

As he did so, he smiled to himself, thinking how excited Sherlock would be; Moriarty’s eye would be his wedding present, John thought; the morbid nature of it did not detract from his enjoyment and that was perhaps scary, but he’d made peace with that fact the moment he’d agreed to follow a stranger to London and live under his roof.

 

Officially, the Bishop of Shrewsbury had been on a sabbatical; in reality, as John knew only too well, he’d been in London, plotting the demise of the current political and religious order. What had happened between the episode at St. Margaret’s and his death was still a mystery. His dental records had broadly confirmed his identity, but there seemed to be no traceable relatives or friends to mourn him, aside from those who belonged to the Church. Father Carmont came and performed the belated last rites, while the machinery of the victim’s Dioceses started slowly but gathered speed as it went, seeking answers from Scotland Yard and virtually silencing the press, which only reported the death as an accident.

Poor Lestrade was hounded by his superiors on one side, and by the gentlemen of Fleet Street on the other, a situation which quickly became intolerable.

Thankfully, or perhaps not, relief came in the guise of a package received by Sherlock a few days later, bearing an Italian stamp, a Venetian one to be precise.

The detective had spent those days carefully examining Moriarty’s body, which had to be prised away from Anderson’s greedy hands; the results of his perusal were consistent with what he’d already concluded: the Bishop had been killed at St. Margaret’s and since there were no traces of either drugs or of a scuffle, the murderer was in all likelihood someone he knew and wasn’t afraid of.

The eye found a permanent home inside a sterilised honey jar which was then placed, rather majestically, by the side of Sherlock’s beloved skull.

 

“John,” gasped Sherlock, who’d evidently been robbed of his power of speech after that single plea.

When the package had been opened, like Pandora’s box, out of it came the evils of Moriarty’s world, including Sherlock’s photographs and their negatives. There were enough documents to incriminate dozens of Bishops, but the one – which naturally would remain in their hands - would suffice to John, who felt as if the weight of the universe had been lifted off his shoulders.

“I wonder what the Church will make of this,” he said and his lover laughed.

“You clearly have never considered the history of that troubled Organization; they survive by closing their collective eyes and proceed as if the events of the world didn’t so much as touch them. This case will be no different: a Bishop has been killed while doing his duty inside a crumbling building; the victim of an accident occurred in the House of God. Why, they might even make him a saint!” Sherlock exclaimed.

His predictions were uncannily accurate: the Chief Superintendent forbade Lestrade from pursuing the case and after the official obsequies, the deceased Bishop was interred with all the pomp and circumstance owed to a man of his stature.

 

The day after receiving the package that restored his freedom and reputation to him, Sherlock was excessively dissatisfied, a fact he did not hesitate to convey in his most disruptive way.

“Not that Mozart racket again!” John shouted from the kitchen. “What is it, my darling?”

“I thought it would be obvious!” the detective huffed, bow still poised upon the instrument, ready to go off again on its mission to incinerate John’s nervous system.

“We did not contribute a single thing to the resolution of this investigation: so much trouble and strife only for the dissolution of years of scheming and plotting happening with one neat decapitation; one of the many heads of the metaphorical Hydra has rolled, while another has fled, never to be seen again; not attached to its neck, at least. And we have been mere onlookers, which incidentally was exactly was Mycroft had advised. How can you expect me to be happy with this horrid conclusion?”

In fact, John had been quite content about finding out, upon an unofficial visit of Scotland Yard to the Mayor Gallery, that the place had been hollowed out of its furnishings and was only an empty shell, stripped clean like a bone blanched under the desert’s sky.

It had seemed like waking up from a nightmare: the figures of Baron von Gloeden and William Hardinge were still in his mind’s eye, with their insolence and twisted sensuality; the depth of their perversion, evil as it had been, had touched John deeply: somewhere inside his bowels was the seed of that desire; he felt it every time he looked at Sherlock while they made love; but, joined to the burning eroticism elicited by that creamy, pristine body was the infinite tenderness for the heart and soul within it, and the respect for the mind that reigned above all the rest. All the same, he recognised the animalistic side of his passion and knew that Sherlock did too; that he chased it and instigated it, yearning to test its strength and boundaries. It would be their lives’ work, and John was sure a hundred years would not be enough to get to the bottom of what his boy meant to him.

“Hardly mere onlookers, considering you were abducted and shot,” he replied, handing his lover a steaming cup of tea, hoping he would relinquish his violin playing.

“Yes, and all for nothing!” the young man exclaimed.

“We haven’t found the manuscript yet nor have we found Mr Benson.”

Sherlock threw him a glance very akin to contemptuous.

“One is with the other and both of them are in Venice. What would be the point of chasing a madman who’s evidently decided to side with his father the Archbishop of Canterbury and destroy the menace represented by Moriarty and his lot? The point is – as I am sure you will not fail to agree – that Maundy Gregory is now safe, normal service has been resumed and we have been only tassels of the puzzle. It sickens me to the core,” he declared, stamping his foot.

“I wouldn’t mind a proper honeymoon and Venice is the most romantic city in the world. I know you hate watering places, but in this case,” John said, sipping his tea with pretend nonchalance.

“Surely we can’t go on – I refuse to call it that sinister name – this _journey_ before the fact,” the detective replied, but he did place the instrument back in its case.

“You said the case is virtually over and I did promise that I would, if you did me the honour,” the older man said, choking a little. “Although you never said yes, I assumed…”

Sherlock drew closer and removed John’s cup from his grasp, depositing it with his own on the side table.

“Yes,” he whispered in his friend’s ear.

The older man let out a deep sigh then raised his hand to that dear face and caressed the slope of a cheekbone, the fullness of the lower lip, the furrow of the philtrum; he chased his touches with soft kisses, all the while tugging at the curls on the boy’s nape with his free hand.

“Will you marry me?” he murmured, breathing the air from of his lover’s mouth.

“Yes,” was the reply, and it was felt more than heard.

“Will you?” he asked again, his hand trailing down from face to throat and from there to chest and abdomen, until it came to the tie of the dressing gown and there it waited.

“Yes,” Sherlock pleaded, licking his lips.

“Yes,” John echoed, invading that luscious mouth with his tongue and taking possession of it. Deep in his throat, the young man moaned; his back was bowed and his hips were thrusting; there was a tremulous, feverish quality to his movements that spoke of heightened emotions.

The older man rested his forehead against his lover’s, gazing down at where he boy was unwrapped and ready: his erection was flat against his abdomen, depositing a copious discharge on the flushed skin.

“Look at you,” he said, in a strangled voice. “Show me,” he ordered, at which the young man shuddered, grasping John’s upper arms to steady himself.

“Do it,” he added, pulling the boy’s hair and turning his head a little to bite down on the blood-hot shell of his ear; when he lapped the skin to soothe it, Sherlock emitted an obscene moan, and finally reached down to take his own cock in hand.

“Squeeze the juice from it,” the older man commanded, “and smear it all over the head.”

The boy complied, using his elegant thumb to flick and tease.

“Pump the shaft now, slowly at first,” the doctor croaked; his face, now pressing against Sherlock’s neck was damp with sweat and he could no longer resist from tonguing and biting the hollow of the white throat, suckling the salty skin.

When he hazarded a glance at his lover’s face, he found it lost in bliss, eyes firmly shut and jaw slack.

He was working furiously on his thickened member, fisting it with blind determination, desperate for pleasure and yet already awash in it.

“You sweet thing,” John crooned, and pressing his forehead to Sherlock’s chest, he moved his hand down to cup and knead the full swell of the boy’s testicles.

That was all that was needed, for the detective cried out and writhed in John’s half-embrace, splashing his release all over their conjoined bodies.

“My darling, my love,” the older man whispered, kissing the curve of his friend’s shoulder, the underside of his jaw and, finally, his keening mouth.

“What a sorry bargain you are making,” Sherlock remarked, after a while.

They’d finally decided against standing up and were lying on their favourite rug, facing the fireplace.

“Why, my dear?”

“I haven’t performed any reciprocation.”

John smiled at the elaborate language, a sure sign that the detective was embarrassed.

“I came the very instant I fingered your balls,” he replied, using the lewd terms on purpose. “You could clean me up,” he suggested, and evidently the young man had been waiting for some form of permission, because he threw himself on his friend’s groin and removing his soiled undergarment, he used his mouth to rid him of the evidence of his ecstasy.

“I love you,” he whispered, afterwards.

“My husband, all mine,” John replied, holding him tight enough to take his breath away.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Death In Venice  
> If you think the mystery is solved, wait until you meet Mr Benson...


	27. The White Knight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vows are exchanged and we are off to Venice.
> 
> Marital sex will happen, so mind the tags!!!
> 
> This part was too long, so Death In Venice will be the next chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Opened in 1920 and close to Baker Street, Marylebone Town Hall is one of the most popular venues in London for weddings and civil partnerships. Its famous steps have twice hosted the nuptials of Sir Paul McCartney, with his late wife Linda and more recently with Nancy Shevell, Ringo Starr and Barbara Bach, Liam Gallagher and Patsy Kensit, and Hollywood stars Antonio Banderas and Melanie Griffith.
> 
> Note 2: The painting I had in mind is this by Walter Sickert, one of my favourite painters and, incidentally, one of the people suspected of being Jack the Ripper. The man is dressed as Pierrot, but that would have confused matters :)  
> 
> 
> Note 3: The Palazzo Marcello is where Rolfe resided when he had money. It is named after musician Benedetto (Italian for Benedict) Marcello.

_“The most interesting story, by far, that Father Benson told me was an experiment in White Magic which he carried out at Rolfe’s request._

_At the end of the period stated, Father Benson told me that he distinctly saw a white figure whose features were quite indistinguishable, mounted on a horse, ride slowly into the middle of his room and there halt for about half a minute, after which it slowly faded away. He immediately sat down and wrote his impression to Rolfe. The latter said that if his instructions were carried out to the letter, the experimenter would see riding towards him the White Knight with visor down.”_

_Excerpt from a letter about Benson written by his friend Vyvyan Holland_

 

* * *

 

It was a violet evening when they arrived at the Hotel Belle Vue et De Russie. Situated to the side of St Mark’s and next to the Clock Tower, it afforded a beautiful view of the Grand Canal.

Despite Sherlock’s misgivings with regards to water, they had chosen that particular location as it had housed Corvo when he’d first arrived in the Italian city.

They were given a suite of rooms on the top floor, and looking out of the lancet windows, one had the impression of floating above the Laguna.

* * *

 

 

Mycroft had been swift and unobtrusive in procuring their marriage licenses. The wedding had taken place on a serene winter morning at the Marylebone Town Hall on Marylebone Road, a beautiful and austere building fronted by columns and flanked by two enormous statues of crouching lions. Compared to the gothic splendour of La Serenissima, that edifice now seemed stern and forbidding, yet to John it was the most beloved of places. A handful of friends and family had been present: Mrs Hudson had cried rivers, Lestrade had held Mycroft’s hand long enough to cause a vertical line of displeasure to form atop Sherlock’s nose, and Mike had slapped John’s back so many times the latter feared it had left a permanent imprint on his skin.

He barely remembered pronouncing his vows, lost as he’d been in Sherlock’s bright eyes; the rapt expression on the detective’s face had become angelic when he’d felt the weight of the ring around his finger. 

The kiss that followed lasted an eternal moment and John would always recall how light his husband had felt in his arms, how madly his heart had fluttered in his chest and how certain he’d been of having married the only man he would ever love till the end of his days.

Afterwards, Sherlock had given him a tremulous, tearful smile and his heart had cracked a little, overflowing with tenderness and fierce passion.

They reception had been a short, informal affair since the newly-weds were due to board their train to Italy that very afternoon.

Thus, their wedding night had been spent in the cosy confines of a first class sleeper berth. In the dining car, they had supped on lobster and champagne, taking the bottle to bed with them.

They had laughed and smoked and had been so drunk they had nearly set the blankets on fire; tacitly, they had agreed their real first night would happen in Venice, so they had spent that preliminary one kissing the happiness off each other’s intoxicated bodies.

 

* * *

 

The Hotel was a gothic marzipan confection: the walls and marble floors were sugar-white, the gilt chandeliers and large brass vases were filled with tall lilies and globular hydrangeas, and a pastel blue carpet decorated the lobby's floor and the imposing staircase.

The concierge, a robust, bearded man in a formal black suit, completed their registration and gave them the keys, while a bellboy was instructed to carry their suitcases upstairs to their lodgings.

“This bed is a work of art,” John exclaimed, as he unpacked his valise. Sherlock had locked himself in the wash-room without a single look at the rest of the suite; it consisted of two separate rooms, lavishly furnished and softly carpeted, with lovely views out of the many uncurtained windows. Thankfully, they were so high up no one could see them except for the occasional pigeon.

The four-poster bed in question was a solid mahogany king-size structure with carved detailing to the headboard and footboard and an upholstered canopy surmounted by a wooden crown. The sheets and blankets were cream-coloured and on them were piled a multitude of pillows and cushions. John lay down on it and was unable to contain a sigh of intense pleasure: after all that rocking and rolling, he was glad to be on solid ground and on a comfortable mattress. He closed his eyes and he must have dozed off for a while, because when he reopened them, the room was bathed in darkness, except for the gas lamp on the nightstand.

By the window, dressed in what seemed like starlight, stood Sherlock, glancing down at the Piazza.

It took John a little while to realise that his husband was wearing a nightshirt of transparent gauze, through which every curve of his slender body could be admired rather than guessed.

“Step away from that window, darling. Someone could see you,” he said, hoarsely.

Without being fully aware of it, he sat up and shed his clothes down to his undergarments.

“We are invisible, up here,” the boy said.

There was a clear challenge in his tone and John took it.

“Don’t make me tell you again,” he said, in a harsh tone that was part of the game.

The young man turned, revealing a prominent tent in the lower portion of his garment, and a stain where his cock-head pushed against the soft fabric.

“Come here,” he commanded.

Slowly, the detective walked towards the foot of the bed, where his partner was already positioned.

“I like your shirt,” John murmured and before Sherlock could reply, he grabbed the collar with both hands and ripped the garment from top to bottom. It gaped open, brushing against the young man’s fevered skin, displaying his vulnerability even more than utter nakedness would have.

John caressed down his lover’s body, roughly; he pulled the boy’s hair, ravaged his mouth and throat, pinched his nipples and spanked his backside and thighs, on and on, until he felt him surrender completely; when he looked at him, Sherlock was in a trance, almost a delirium of submission.

“Suck me,” he commanded, and without further ado, he removed what was left of his own clothes and fed his cock to his voracious husband.

They both knew it was only a preparatory act, and it lasted a handful of pulls, after which John felt electric with purpose.

There was only one thing he needed to know.

“How?” he asked, and immediately Sherlock moved to the side of the bed, climbing on it and crawling on his elbows and knees, his head down on the mattress, one cheek resting on the coverlet.

John pulled him down towards him and, parting the rounded buttocks, he ducked down and pressed his face between them.

Above him, his husband shook and whimpered, but he clutched the boy’s hips with both hands, and lapped at his entrance. He didn’t care for restraint, not that night: he slurped and sucked it until it was sopped and slack; then he stabbed the inside of it with his tongue, probing it until he felt the muscle contract and release. It could have gone on all night had he not felt the urgent need to be buried so deep into his boy he’d never find his way out again.

With difficulty, he stood up, caressing Sherlock’s sweaty back as he did so; the young man let out a pitiful moan of protest; he was rewarded with a knuckle against his perineum that transformed the wail into a shout.

“Oh, Christ,” John swore at the view of flushed, slick skin and swollen testicles.

Quickly, he took the jar of oil that he’d placed on the nightstand by the lamp and coated his hands and erection with it; it was warm and scented; musky.

“Not your fingers, you,” the boy said, in a scratchy voice.

“It will hurt,” he replied.

“Yes, yes.”

“I want you to be sure.”

“Please, please,” the young man begged, and John would never deny him anything, not when he’d asked for it twice.

 

Sherlock had wondered about the lack of penetrative intercourse, but he had trusted John implicitly; hence, he’d never asked him about it. And then it had dawned on him that his lover wanted to save that ultimate act of surrender for their wedding night.

He’d scoffed at the sentimentality of it all, but in reality, he had been quite touched. Once the plan was clear, he prepared for the eventuality, buying suitable attire and imagining the manner in which it would unfold. What he’d not taken into account was the intensity of the act, the overwhelming nature of his own wish to submit and the infinity of details that demanded to be observed and catalogued, if only he’d had a mind for them.

When the time had come, he’d barely been sentient enough to plead for what he craved more than oxygen and murders.

The first breach was an invasion: it ached like a knife-stab and at first his body rejected it; soon his twisted receptors translated the pain into pleasure, and he pushed back into it, even as John tried to restrain him.

He wanted to be filled with it; wanted his bowels to reshape themselves to accommodate it; wanted it to crucify and impale him, make him into martyr, a sainted whore with a single deity.

“More, more,” he implored, as John drove into him hard and fast.

“Here, my love, here,” the blond man sang, and with the next thrust, he pushed the boy down and to the side a little.

It was then that Sherlock lost all control: when his husband sank into him, something in him burst like a conflagration of unending pleasure.

He screamed and screamed until his throat hurt, but John wouldn’t stop; he kept at it, mean and determined, and he grew bigger, larger; soon, he’d become Sherlock’s whole world.

“I can’t, I can’t,” he sobbed and felt a roaring fire burn in his groin; he knew the release was close and when it came, after a mere few strokes, the wild sprays of hot ejaculate painted the covers a milkier shade of white. Inside him, his husband had exploded too, biting down hard on a winged shoulder blade, leaving a mark in the shape of a ring; another token of their sacred pledge.

 

“I’m sorry about your shirt; it was really pretty,” John sighed, playing with the frayed hem of the garment that still clung to the young man’s body.

“I chose it on purpose, as I am sure you are aware,” Sherlock murmured; he was sore, hoarse and gloriously happy.

Outside, the night was alive with a magical kaleidoscope of lights and distant noises: it was the ending of the Carnival celebrations, or so they had been informed.

“I never imagined life could bring me someone like you; not after all I had been through,” the older man said, tangling his fingers into the mess of his husband’s precious curls.

The detective lit a cigarette with shaky hands and, relishing the ache and wetness between his buttocks, he grinned.

“A gift dropped from the heavens, straight into your lap.”

John’s spent member twitched.

“Careful what you say, my love; sleeping dogs and all that,” he joked.

The detective grimaced.

“Do not remind me of my brother, if you please. Not on our wedding night.”

“As a matter of fact, it was last night.”

“Last night we almost caught fire, only it was in the literal sense.”

They exchanged a sly look and burst into laughter. As their mirth subsided, their hands joined; their rings gleamed warmly in the half-light and they could only stare at them and entwine their fingers together; the silence was thick with love and the mingling of their breaths. John started caressing down Sherlock’s chest, lingering over his nipples, waiting for a sign that his boy was ready and willing; the luscious moan that he emitted was proof enough for his husband, who was about to suck one elegant finger into his mouth, when he heard a shuffling noise coming from the door.

Instinctively, he reached for the nightstand’s drawer, inside which he’d placed his gun.

“Who is it?” he called out, but no reply came.

“Put something on, my love,” he told Sherlock, who was already doing just that.

John had dressed with the typical celerity of the ex-soldier and soon they had their ears to the door, but no sound came from the other side.

A piece of paper had been slipped under it, folded in two, with the name ‘Sherlock Holmes’ in capital letters inked on it.

Inside, the message read:

“‘ _I worship the white sprawler. You are making a mistake about my relationships with boys. You know I never make friends of them now, but I make them my bondslaves & then I worship their beauty. When my knees are stiff or I get bored, I kick them to Gehenna or Sheol. Then I go on sweet remembrance till I find another idol. But I am not a scrap sentimental about them_.’ Palazzo Marcello, Gran Canal – The night is still young.”

“These are Rolfe’s words, I’m sure of it. I know his style by now and it’s the sort of things he would have confessed to a friend,” Sherlock exclaimed, sniffing the paper and examining its texture.

“Or a lover,” John added.

“A bondslave, more like. Should we accept the invitation, my dear?”

The blond man shook his head, smiling.

“A possibly fatal adventure on Carnival night in a mysterious city with my newly deflowered husband: I can’t even remotely fathom anything more tempting,” he quipped.

They dressed warmly to counteract the frost outside and – armed with a gun and a Baedeker guide – they went in search of the elusive Mr Benson.

Downstairs, they interrogated the night porter about the identity of their unseen visitor, but the sleepy man could only provide the description of Pulcinella or Pierrot, whose attire consisted of a white pyjama-like ensemble with a ruffled collar, a slouchy hat and a black mask.

They asked about the Palazzo Marcello and were told it was not too far, provided they stayed close as possible to the Grand Canal and avoided the maze of the Calli, which were overcrowded with revellers and in which they would probably lose their way.

 

They strode across St. Mark’s Square, which was as distant from a Canaletto painting as possible. There was no ordered symmetry to it, nor was there the rose-hued postcard liveliness, but instead a palpable sense of decadence; the squalor and miasma of death just moments away from the baroque grandeur of the piazzas and palaces.

Sherlock had carefully studied the map provided on the Baedeker and had memorised their itinerary; thus relieved from the disquiet of finding his way, John was able to observe his surroundings: dank alleyways reeking of sewage; a multitude of low arches and small bridges of fine design contrasting with peeling, crumbling walls; the many churches that sprouted at every corner - like pachyderms nestled among the common dwellings – shielding their Titians and Tintorettos like jewels in the rough; the constant rushing, swishing and splashing of water that became a permanent counterpoint to daily life; the sudden burst of vegetation that he’d read somewhere were nourished by the hundreds of human skeletons, a memento of the wars of the previous century.

This intriguing spectacle of misery and nobility was rendered even more absurd by the masked figures that crowded the calli and campi: outlandish costumes enriched by crinolines and wigs; powdered faces, carmine lips and be-gloved hands: Sherlock was reminded of Mozart’s Don Giovanni and at every turn, he anticipated the thrill of a black cape and domino, like the poor composer waiting for his death, with a mixture of terror and exhilaration.

Drunk and bawdy, the revellers shouted, sang and kissed; the eroticism and chaos of excess was shot through here and there with unexpected tenderness and quiet: at one point, in front of a church, they’d come upon a man dressed as a pirate hugging a girl in a humble grey dress: there was no mistaking the sweetness and love in their embrace; the two men gazed at each other and exchanged a brief smile; after that, they walked hand in hand, as if some chain of formality had been snapped for good.

 

When they reached their destination, they were unsurprised to see that Palazzo Marcello was a three-storey gothic-style palace with curved-top windows and a white façade stained by damp patches.

It retained its magnificence despite the decay, like an elderly lady who’d once been a beauty and has preserved the ghost of it in her deportment and bone structure.

The door, a carved wooden portal sodden with humidity, opened with a creak and, when John turned to close it, he saw that an obituary was affixed to it, one of those to be found everywhere in Italy, papering the walls of villages and cities. In the scant candlelight, they could hardly read it. A voice, deep and unmistakably British, emerged from the bowels of the place, reciting it for them:

“An Englishman’s Death in Venice. A Reuter telegram says that Mr. Frederick Rolfe of London, a writer on historical subjects, has been found dead in his apartments by a friend. He came into considerable prominence through his story _How I Was Buried Alive_. He was a man of extraordinary genius and versatility. A clever writer, musician, and artist.”

A peal of amused laughter followed this declamation, and then there was silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: Both the obituary and the sentence written in the note are verbatim, and the latter was really written by Rolfe. 
> 
> Next: Death in Venice (this time for real)


	28. Death in Venice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ladies and Gentlemen: Robert Hugh Benson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid unnecessary spoilers, the notes will be at the end.
> 
> The only note here is about the quote from the previous chapter: I forgot to mention that Vyvyan Holland (Benson’s friend) was Oscar Wilde’s son. Not in any way relevant, but Vyvyan’s son is called Merlin. Basically Oscar Wilde’s grandson’s name is Merlin. I don't know why, but that makes me happy.

 

 _“Almost a very god thou wert to me;_  
_Haloed with brilliant virtues; every grace_  
_Lived in thy look and shone about thy face:_  
_bowed beneath thee, loved, feared, worshipped thee._

_Then in my folly and my jealousy_

_I let my critic thoughts prevail apace,_

_Which entered, swarming, tore thee from thy place,  
And dashed thee down in wrath and enmity.”_

_Hero Worship (excerpt) – R. H. Benson dedicated to F. W. Rolfe_

_“Because passion, like crime, does not like everyday order and well-being and every slight undoing of the bourgeois system, every confusion and infestation of the world is welcome to it, because it can unconditionally expect to find its advantage in it.”_

_Death in Venice – Thomas Mann_

* * *

 

 

When they turned around, no one was there.

The interior of the Palace was even more squalid than its frontage: water had corroded and rotted the furniture, bending and twisting the dainty chairs and tables, sopping the turquoise velvets of the upholstery, staining the yellowed walls with Rorschach-shaped patches and filling the air with a tubercular stench.

The salon was illuminated by a brass chandelier that dangled uncertainly from the pock-marked ceiling; the shifting shadows made them feel as if tossed about by the waves, giving them sea-sickness. The splashing sound was too close to be coming from the Grand Canal and, sure enough, when they opened the door to the side of a mouldy chaise-longue, they came upon a room that had been gutted by the elements: the floor had given way to the stream underneath, so that the walls seem to emerge from the depth of the lagoon, akin to a decayed Atlantis.

“Step back, dear,” John cautioned, echoing the words he’d said earlier in very different circumstances.

Sherlock seemed hypnotised by that liquid surface, by the glints and gleams shining through it, suggestive of a treasure buried fathoms deep.

“Come on,” John insisted, taking his husband’s hand and pulling him away; he closed the door, and only after doing that did he feel safe.

And then the voice started again, but this time it belonged to another man; it had a soft, secretive tone, although there was also a mechanical quality to its delivery.

_“Have you ever seen serpents sliding out of the eye-holes of skulls?”_

“That’s Rolfe’s voice,” the detective gasped.

“You can’t possibly be sure, dear,” the older man replied. “It’s an interesting coincidence though, considering what happened to Moriarty's body.”

And again the voice continued:

“ _I am now simply engaged in dying as slowly and publicly and as annoyingly to you all professing and non-professing friends of mine, as possible_. _”_

“We have to find him,” Sherlock said, and his expression was verging on manic; his eyes had the same distant yet possessed look as that day in Oscott, in Rolfe’s old rooms.

“I’ll go first.”

The blond man walked to the end of the room where an arched doorway opened to a narrow staircase leading to the upper floors. Antique paintings hung askew on the walls; the countenances of their subjects, blurred by the passing of time and by the elements, seemed sickly and faintly mocking. He thought he could hear Sherlock’s heart thumping as the boy was so close to him, but it was probably his own pulse resounding in the renewed silence.

On the first and second floor all the doors were boarded up with planks of wood nailed over them and painted read for danger.

“Thank heavens there’s only three floors,” John said, trying for levity.

“Safer in a way, as it’s more distanced from the water, but if the foundations are disintegrating…” his husband replied.

 “You are not really helping here.”

“Merely stating the facts, my dear,” Sherlock said, sounding less tense.

They tiptoed in the direction of the light, which shone feebly from underneath a door at the end of the candle-lit corridor.

“Shall we?” John murmured, waiting for his companion’s assent, which came in the form of a court nod.

Together, they pushed the creaky double door open, but their theatrical entrance was undermined by the prosaic scene before them: instead of a copy of the decadent if squalid rooms downstairs, they were faced with a makeshift flat all compressed in one large room: a divan and two chaises-longue, a table and four chairs, a couple of old-fashioned armoires, a pot-bellied credenza in the French style and a Queen-size bed constituted the main furnishings, which were completed by a cast iron stove over which a tall young man with shoulder-length reddish hair was boiling a pot of water.

He was still wearing his Pierrot costume, but had removed both mask and hat.

When he turned towards them, he revealed a long, narrow face still caked in white powder; his eyes and mouth were also painted, so it was almost impossible to discern his real features.

“I imagine you’d enjoy a cup of tea; it’s nearly impossible to get a decent one in Venice and in this weather one wishes for nothing but a hot drink,” he declared, in that same voice they’d heard earlier.

“Mr Benson, was it you we heard before?” John asked, stunned.

“Partially, yes; the other voice was Frederick's; no, not really him; I haven’t stuffed him and kept him hidden in here somewhere,” the man joked.

“A dictaphone,” Sherlock explained. He was inspecting the room and, above a black wooden box, he found the cylindrical implement.

“Yes, Mr Holmes,” Benson said, smiling with the red gash that was his lipsticked mouth. “Frederick was a great admirer of new scientific inventions; he recorded his own voice; would you like to hear more?”

The detective nodded.

“Here,” the man said; a deafening din came out it, until he hastened to regulate the volume.

_“The clutch of us both was amazing. I never knew that I was loved or loved so passionately with so much of me by so much of another. Not a speck of us did not play its part. And the end came simultaneously. Long abstinence had lost us self control. He couldn’t simply couldn’t wait his turn, and we clung together panting and gushing torrents – torrents. Then we laughed and kissed, rolled over and cleaned up and got into bed to sleep, embraced.”_

When the recording stopped, John cleared his throat.

“Is it one of his novels?” he ventured, and Benson cackled.

“Not a story, old chap, but a confession; to me, of all people; can you imagine?” he said, laughing with his amused yet hollow laugh.

“He must have loved you once,” Sherlock murmured.

“Why, Mr Holmes, you were there, don’t you recall?” the man asked, capturing the detective's gaze with his. His hand was holding a wooden stick, which he smacked against the stove, counting the blows, “One – thwack – two – thwack – three – thwack,” until the curly haired man let out a sharp cry.

“It was you,” he cried “that I saw in my hallucination; you were with Rolfe! Why did I forget if it really happened?”

“Oh, it happened all right, my dear. Frederick saw you and had you in his thrall. He did that all the time, like a true disciple of Mesmer.”

Seeing John’s perplexity, he explained.

“Something to do with magnetism and the transmittance of energy; even Mozart composed music for Mesmer: a piece by glass harmonica,” Benson explained.

Even in that dramatic moment, the doctor couldn’t help grimacing at the memory of the horrible cacophony that had come from his husband’s violin.

“He hypnotised you and made you forget what you had seen. Only you did not erase it completely from your mind because the episode had left an indelible trace in the animal part of your brain. Have you ever tried mesmerism, Mr Holmes?” Benson asked.

He’d prepared the tea and placed the steaming cups on the table, inviting his guest to partake of it with an eloquent gesture of his long, elegant arm.

They all sat down in the most civilised of manners, as if it were a conventional social occasion.

“Did you know that Wagner lived next door? I’ve always adored Tristan und Isolde, even though I could never stomach women,” Benson commented, his green eyes fixed on Sherlock.

“Why did you want us here?” the detective asked; he sat with his back straight and rigid, like he was prepared to flee or pounce at any moment. Not that he needed to, since John had a hand on his gun and was prepared to shoot and kill, if necessary.

“You and I have much in common,” the man said, extracting a cigarette from a battered tin case. He smoked it feverishly and soon lit another from the butt of the first one. “Frederick would have liked you. He was easily bored with people, but perhaps not with you,” he said amicably, before surrendering to a bout of hysterical laughter.

“He used to write to me while I was at Eton and tell me of all these _boys_ he photographed; he even tried to use stereoscopy to watch them in all their glory. His prose was enamelled, gemmed with sonorous, odorous words: I remember how I swooned when I read his letters, recalling the days when we’d been together… such a short time, too short; he had this martial cloak that likened him to the Duke of Wellington and his voice was low and sensuous,” he continued, imitating the velvety tones of Corvo.

“Did you and he…? You were only a child,” John said, and his husband flinched like he’d been slapped.

“Not really a _child_ ; we did, of a sort; you see, while he was at Oscott, he took a vow of celibacy, which he respected in his own strange way. He hurt me and I pleasured him; it worked fine for both of us, as I am sure you perfectly comprehend,” he replied, eyeing the blond man with scurrilous approval.

“No, I do not,” the latter replied, but his husband had turned deathly pale and even more statuary.

“You haven’t given me an answer,” he said, icily.

“Siblings are a real nuisance, I have always thought. And Arthur is the greatest thorn in any man’s side; he’s looking for me and sooner or later he would have found me; so I thought, why not now, when my work is almost done?”

“Yes, your _work_ ; tell us about that,” the doctor asked, sipping his tea to establish a more relaxed atmosphere. He was worried about his husband, but there was nothing for it but let Benson unburden himself.

“Don’t imagine that Frederick gave me the manuscript; he did nothing of the sort. In fact, he was angry with me when he died, and even spoke badly of me in the novel. He was only right to be irate, for I abandoned him when he needed me; a combination of jealousy and my horrid pride. He drew my horoscope and said I was always to be subject to bouts of manic melancholia and hysteria, and perhaps he was right. All the same,” he sighed. “This is I, Robert Hugh Benson, Hugh for my friends and Robert for my enemies. The Bishop of Shrewsbury was one of the latter; he’d treated Frederick horribly; in fact I'm convinced Moriarty was the reason he was ejected from Oscott. And the way he and that scoundrel von Gloeden conspired against him afterwards. I had my suspicions, but it was only when I found the manuscript that I was sure.”

“You didn’t know?” John asked, incredulous.

The young man slapped the cut-glass ashtray from his lap and made it fly across the room, until it crashed against a wall. When he spoke again, his tone was calm.

“As I said, I had angered him; he was the bitter, resentful sort, but in this case he had his good reasons; I lost him and then he was dead and it was too late… all too late,” he stated in a dreamy voice. “But it was not too late to punish those monsters.”

“What happened to Moriarty?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh well, I just wanted to try out on him what Frederick had suggested, except once that demon’s eye was out, I realised I had no serpents with me. Fancy a crypt without snakes,” he guffawed, spitting out the last word.

“And the Baron?” asked John.

“Baron, my foot! A charlatan who used Frederick’s artistic talent to further his disgusting blackmailing business; don’t worry about him, he’s enjoying the fate that I’m so terrified of.”

“Being buried alive,” Sherlock whispered, “The title of Rolfe's story… that story was about you.”

“Yes, very clever, Mr Holmes.”

“Not so clever since I didn’t see what was staring me in the face. You were right, Mr Benson, siblings can be troublesome.”

“What?” John exclaimed.

Without turning to look at him, Sherlock replied:

“Maundy Gregory and Mycroft belong to the same club as Arthur Benson. Don’t you see? They suspected Benson had the manuscript and imagined what he would do with the information contained in it; they engaged us so that we would create a diversion. It’s rather elegant, don’t you think?”

The blond man thought of all they had been through and was filled with a murderous rage.

“Elegant, you say? Your brother let them abduct you and drug you and god knows what else… You got shot and could have died, for heaven’s sake! And what about Ms Redfern and Sholto: did you do that too?” he asked Benson, who shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

“Julia is a friend of mother’s; I was afraid she would say something before I had completed my mission. As for Mr Douglas, he deserved a worse fate than mere drowning. He was the one who took Frederick away from me with that Constantine Pritchard affair. It scared him that story; he became terrified that the same could happen to us; that he could go too far with me. Of course, Sholto wanted Frederick all to himself; that was the real motive behind his every act. He killed a boy to prove a point,” Benson explained, and John was left without words, too horrified to speak.

“We are here to see you die,” Sherlock murmured.

“My brother would never be content without a proper witness’ account.”

“We won’t let you,” John started, before he realised that he was seeing double. “What the … the tea?” he slurred, turning to his husband. The detective’s tea cup was still intact.

“Just a mild sedative, nothing to be afraid of,” Benson confirmed.

He had taken a flannel and was cleaning his face; underneath the make up, his skin was as unmarked and youthful as Sherlock’s.

“Will you hold my hand?” he said to the detective who, to John’s amazement, nodded silently and complied.

 _This is all a nightmare, just a nightmare_ , he repeated in his mind, trying desperately to keep his eyes open.

Through his fogged vision, he saw the two young men walk away, and when he tried to reach out to them, he found that he was only pawing at the empty space where they no longer were.

 

“I saw a boat in my hallucination; it was painted over with images and writings,” the detective said, as they walked down the stairs, hand in hand.

Benson halted and looked up at him, perplexed.

“Yes, here in Venice Frederick had acquired a sandalo, a small rowing boat, and on it he had painted Perseus St. George facing a sun-burst and his motto in Greek. I wonder how it came to be part of your vision; perhaps his spirit is talking to you. I believe in life after death; as a religious man, I have no other choice.”

“I only believe in science,” Sherlock replied, but his lips were trembling slightly.

The other man grinned; his mouth still bore a trace of the lipstick he’d worn and his eyes were smudged with black, like emeralds dipped in coal.

“And what is science if not an even more fanatical religion? You know, even before Frederick’s passing, I always imagined I wouldn’t live long and when I did think of it, I hoped I would fall asleep and never wake up again. But then I read the words of Keats…”

“Here lies one whose name was writ in water,” the detective quoted.

“After that, I knew what I had to do. But I needed someone to be present and tell my story, and it could only be Sherlock Holmes: the boy who’d witnessed my beginning would also see the end of me.”

When Benson opened the door onto the decayed Atlantis, Sherlock faltered.

“It doesn't have to be the end; you could go away, change your name,” he suggested, but the other man clicked his tongue in amusement.

“There's no getting away from oneself, my dear; you know this only too well,” he replied.

Then, without a word of goodbye, he kissed the detective’s wedding band with a defiant look, and let the waters engulf him.

 

John knew that the only way to regain full consciousness was to hurt himself. He would have shot the meat of his arm or thigh, but he wasn’t lucid enough to be certain of the result. He did the next best thing and hit his own face with the barrel of his gun. When he re-opened his eyes, his nose was bleeding and his mouth was filled with the tang of iron, but he was awake and coherent; his legs were shaking, but fear and adrenaline carried him, as he barrelled down the stairs.

Terrified, he saw his husband teeter on the edge of that water grave; his head was bent and his eyes fixed on a remote point below the surface.

“I couldn’t help him… I couldn’t… I don’t know how to,” the young man whispered, desperately.

“Sherlock, my love, please look at me,” John implored.

“He was right; we are very alike, I also like to be hurt and what if you, one day, like Rolfe, should grow tired of me and leave… I could do what he did; I’m capable of it; I know I am,” the detective replied, in a breathless, frantic manner.

“Darling, please look at me; I would never do that to you; I could not live without you and there isn’t a single chance in heaven or hell that I could grow tired of you. How can I, when you are the whole world to me? You are mine and I am yours now, remember?”

Sherlock gazed away from the water and stared at his ring finger, touching the wedding band with a trembling gesture.

“He was envious of this, of us,” he murmured.

John moved closer to him - slowly as not to scare him - until he had him safe in his arms. He dragged him away to the adjoining salon, where they collapsed in a heap on a mouldy divan.

“Why are you bleeding?” Sherlock asked after a while; his face was pressed to his husband’s chest and there were little bloodstains all over the man’s coat collar.

“It doesn’t matter, dear; think of it as my very own alarm clock; I couldn’t allow that madman to have his way, could I? Why did you follow him?”

The young man sighed; he pulled out a silk handkerchief from the internal pocket of his cape and started wiping the blood off his husband’s face.

“It was the least I could do for him; after all, he’s done our work for us.”

“Yes, I can’t say I’m not glad that villainous Baron is food for worms, although I would have enjoyed planting a bullet in between those lizard eyes.”

He kissed Sherlock’s fingers as they brushed across his lips, and continued:

“I wonder what happened to William Hardinge and that Overgaard serpent.”

His husband chuckled weakly.

“I should be able to find out, my dear, despite my woeful inability to get at the hidden truths of this case. I hope you still have some faith in me.”

John caressed the boy’s damp hair and tried to kiss his mouth, but Sherlock, worried about the state of his husband’s nose, would have none of it.

“My faith in you is undimmed, my love, but you have to promise me that you will stay away from trouble for a little while; at least until we have enjoyed the marital bed for longer than a handful of minutes.”

At this, the detective finally burst into unrestrained laughter.

“You said you relished the prospect of tonight’s adventure.”

“I did, but my definition of adventure doesn’t include the risk of my husband drowning on our wedding night.”

“It was never my intention, my dear. It was just a sort of trance, of magnetism,” the boy explained.

“We can explore that together, if you like; I’m not one for spiritualism, but I’m willing to try, for you.”

Sherlock curled his mouth in distaste, a return to his acerbic self.

“There’s no need, I assure you. The case is over and these ghosts and memories can finally be put away, for ever.”

He gazed around the salon, as if to convey that message to the deceased Rolfe, willing him to rest in peace: his enemies had been dispatched while his lover’s name was now writ in water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: The quotes in italics are verbatim. 
> 
> Note 2: Since it is not easy to untangle reality from fiction with regards to Mr Robert Hugh Benson - Catholic priest, writer and teacher - here are a few facts: he wrote ghost stories, he was obsessed with mesmerism, he went to sleep inside a room still spattered with blood after one of his fellow undergraduates had committed suicide in it, his recurring dream was of being arrested by the Italian police and treated brutally, he wanted to die in his sleep but left instructions in order to avoid the horror of being buried alive, Rolfe had cast his horoscope and diagnosed him with ‘masculine hysteria’, he had asked Rolfe to live in adjoining flats and only meet daily after 2:30 pm when he would be ‘more tolerant and tolerable’, as a tutor he once narrated to his class an explicit confession of his ‘evils while he was a student’ (he basically told them he’d had sex with boys – consider that he was their tutor AND a priest) and, last but not least, his last four novels have apparently been dictated after his death by his spirit to a certain Anthony Borgia who claimed of being his medium.
> 
> Note 3: We have already established that Rolfe was also rather insane. Well, to take his revenge on Benson, he threatened to write a pornographic work in Italian, French and English and sign it in Benson’s name. He never did it, but I guess it was because he died before he was able to. He died in October, 1913 and Benson a year later, October 1914. Anyway, I sort of granted him his wish, having written a smutty story with Benson in it. :)
> 
> Next: The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole aka more explanations and more sex.
> 
> Thanks to you all for coming on this journey with me; I hope you have enjoyed it as much as I have.


	29. The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End  
> There will be sex, so mind the tags

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: thanks to all of you who have read and left kudos and comments. I couldn't have done it without you!!! xxx
> 
> Note: This is the cover of Rolfe's book, designed by Andy Warhol  
> 
> 
> Note 2: The bit about Lyons has been taken from here: [Lyons](http://www.savvyrow.co.uk/blogs/savvy-blog/5358182-i-remember-those-lyons-corner-houses)

_“And then, all of a sudden, on this iridescent morning of opals in January, when the lips of Zildo touched the hand of Nicholas, owner of lips and owner of hand experienced a single definite shock: an electric shiver tingled through their veins: hot blood went surging and romping through their hearts: a blast, as of rams’ horns, sang in their ears and rang in their beings, and down went all sorts of separations.”_

_The Desire and Pursuit of the Whole (excerpt) – Frederick W. Rolfe_

* * *

 

After the dramatic events of the night, John wished to leave Palazzo Marcello and seek help, but Sherlock insisted he wanted to seize the manuscript and any other memento of Rolfe’s that may be hidden among Benson’s personal belongings.

To his husband’s worried mind, the detective seemed oddly unconcerned about the legalities and formalities of their present situation.

“Don’t fret, my dear,” the young man sighed, having read his husband’s thoughts. “We informed the hotel’s night porter about our destination.”

“The night porter was more than half-asleep and it’s Carnival night.”

“Darling John, still retaining your bewitching naivety despite everything that’s happened,” Sherlock jested, while hunting about the place in search of its hidden treasures. “My meddlesome sibling knows where we are and you can be certain that he planted one of his lackeys somewhere in the vicinity, perhaps even on the very same floor.”

John shuddered at the thought of one of Mycroft’s men spying on their carnal encounter.

“The Polizia will be here before long and I’m pretty sure they know exactly what has happened and will act accordingly. The victim’s death will be recorded as accidental and we will be praised for having tried to impede it. The poor, unfortunate Robert Hugh Benson, who lost his mind and fled to the Middle East only to return and find his demise inside the noble dwelling of his deceased friend; the gutter press will have a field day with this: the articles will positively drip with mawkish claptrap and not a word of it will bear any semblance of the truth. Oh, here, look!” he exclaimed, and inside one of the armoires, underneath a false bottom, were concealed stacks of papers, written all over in the most elegant and gothic-styled hand; all undeniably belonging to the infamous Frederick William Rolfe, also known as Baron Corvo.

“Should I get rid of the remains of our drinks?” the doctor asked, while Sherlock leafed through the documents.

“What? No, leave them alone. The police won’t bother analysing them; wait, on the other hand, I might just…” the detective muttered, extracting a stoppered vial from inside his cloak.

“Anything else you are hiding under there?”

“Such an ambiguous question, my dear, could engender a multiplicity of indecorous answers.”

John couldn’t help but wonder at the youth’s powers of recuperation.

“To think that only minutes ago you were entranced by a deranged murderer.”

“I prefer to think of him as an avenging angel; after all, you said you’d have killed von Gloeden yourself; you even threatened him to his face,” the detective replied, moving closer to his husband; his pupils were dilated and he was breathing rapidly.

“Yes, well, he deserved to die, after what he did, not only to you, but to all those other poor boys.”

“I wouldn’t mind to see you kill someone for me; I wouldn’t mind it one single bit,” Sherlock whispered, kissing John’s cheek, then his throat, and he was heading to the nether regions when his husband stopped him.

“We are not consummating our marriage here, my love.”

“Why not?” the detective asked, evidently annoyed.

“Because it’s the scene of a crime,” his companion replied, only to realise that Sherlock was not deterred by this fact, but that the opposite was closer to the truth.

Thankfully, he was saved from having to resist what would probably have been a dangerously sensuous attack, by the Polizia who, as predicted, stormed the place and did exactly what the detective had foretold. The Italian Commissario spoke heavily accented English, but John certainly understood the words ‘accident’, ‘misfortune’, and most definitely “Mr Mycroft Holmes”.

The entire procedure didn’t take long, considering no probing questions were asked and no interest was shown for the box of papers that Sherlock had wrapped inside a blanket, with every intention of taking it away with him.

 _Disgrazia_ was the word the gesticulating men kept repeating and John knew enough Latin to understand what it meant and nod in agreement.

In the end, they refused a lift on the police’s vaporetto – they’d had enough of water for that night - and walked back to the Hotel.

The dregs of the Carnival celebrations were strewn all over the city: empty bottles, discarded masks; the flotsam and jetsam of hedonism and profligacy preceding the stern privation of Lent.

It was the witching hour and the excitement that had characterised their adventure was slowly dissolving, leaving in its wake a bitter-sweet fatigue; they held each other’s hand, but stayed silent, wishing to recapture the enchantment of the evening, before Benson’s tragic interruption.

Back at their lodgings, after a quick trip to the wash-room, they undressed and slumped atop their luxurious bed where, exhausted and entwined, they drifted off into dreamless sleep.

 

John woke up to the uncanny sensation of being watched, and sure enough Sherlock was staring at him much like he would have a sample under his microscope.

“What?” he muttered, trying to keep his eyes open under that close scrutiny.

“I was thinking,” the boy replied “that we shouldn’t risk the same fate that befell Benson’s relationship with Rolfe.”

“Theirs was an unhealthy entanglement; we are married: there’s no similarity between the two.”

The detective shook his head; he was so close that a lock of his curls brushed his husband’s brow.

“Words are what kept them away from one another: what they said and wrote; what they didn’t. I’ve always been rather… thrifty with my communications. But I don’t want to anymore, not between us.”

John smiled and caressed his husband’s grave face.

“You are perfectly eloquent, my dear.”

“Perhaps, but I could do better. For instance, last night, I could have told you rather than shown you.”

“I didn’t mind that one bit.”

“But what if I had said… please John, I want you to mount me and fuck me until I lose my senses?” Sherlock murmured in his sexiest tones.

His companion did not bother to answer; he just invaded his mouth and shoved his tongue down that shapely throat.

“And what would you like now?” he panted, after a long while.

“Mm,” the detective moaned, dazed by the intense kiss, “Want you inside me again…make use of me, until I scream for release… beg you for it…”

“You are still sore; I saw it from your gait last night.”

“Yes, but we don’t have to be anywhere today or tomorrow,” Sherlock said, inching closer until his erection touched John’s bare thigh. He pressed against it, circling his hips.

“Christ, I want you so much,” John gasped, biting down his boy’s neck and chest.

“Have me then,” the young man croaked, letting his legs fall open in invitation.

No further enticement was required; a slick finger then two repeatedly stabbed him open, accompanied by a feverish commentary “Yes, my love, so tight and hot, so gorgeous.” Despite his intentions, Sherlock found that he was unable to speak beyond the litany of screams, moans and bitten-off “oh, yes, yes, ah, please, please,” that escaped his parted lips when John entered him and proceeded to pound roughly into him, over and over again. This time, they were face to face, and the older man was doing his best to fold his boy in two, in order to devour his mouth.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, curtly, as he licked at his husband’s lips.

Sherlock tried to shake his head.

“I said, touch yourself,” John repeated, with a vicious thrust that had his boy whimpering; it had hit that secret, delicious spot inside him and he wanted more of it.

“Again, again,” he pleaded, but his lover stilled, waiting for his order to be obeyed.

The instant his fingers grasped his cock-head, the detective knew he was lost.

“I’m going to come,” he sobbed, and after that, John had at him like a possessed thing, his heavy sac almost wanting to get inside too. They finished at the same time, their breaths mingling and chests almost glued together by Sherlock’s copious discharge.

“You are a wonder, my love,” the blond man commented, in the aftermath.

A pretty frown appeared between his husband’s eyebrows.

“Hardly a wonder: I didn’t say anything.”

John gave him a wide, brilliant smile and kissed the little wrinkle away.

“This new theory of yours is severely flawed, my dear; in my experience, people who produce a running commentary during the act are not enjoying the proceedings.”

“But I am not _people_! I am,” he protested.

“The only consulting detective in the world, I know. And the craziest, sexiest and most obnoxious violin-playing husband a man could ever hope for. And if I didn’t succeed in reducing you to a whimpering mess of erotic lust what sort of companion would I be? It’d be hardly worth your while, this marriage lark.”

Sherlock looked horrified.

“You must know that this, our union, means everything to me; that I would no longer know how to exist, without you.”

“I’m glad I insisted you keep your name, though; Sherlock Holmes: it has an aristocratic ring to it that my humble, workmanlike Watson would have spoiled.”

The detective chuckled.

“What’s in a name, anyway? A rose by any other name,” he quoted.

“Here, have a cigarette, my very own Romeo,” John laughed, dropping the silver case onto his lover’s lap. “Or should I call you Juliet? You’d still smell as sweet,” he quipped.

“Oh, shut it and light me up.”

“Such eloquence, my love; it was indeed a grand idea to enrich our drab conversation with the pearls of your limitless wisdom and…” John declaimed, ignoring the young man’s requests. Soon he was interrupted by his disgruntled husband shoving a lit cigarette between his lips.

“I love you, my darling,” he said, after a few, luscious drags.

“You are everything to me,” Sherlock replied, dreamily.

“You needn't sound so maudlin abut it.”

“I wasn’t,” the detective protested, exhaling smoke like a lanky, shaggy-haired dragon. “It was a tone redolent of the wistful pangs of love,” he explained, with the clear-eyed manner of a scientist dissecting a moth.

John spat out his cigarette, risking another incident like the one on the train. He batted away the embers, laughing so hard his eyes were filled with tears.

“Oh, bother!” Sherlock protested, but in the next instant he was laughing too and his cigarette almost went the same way as his husband’s.

All in all, it was a perfect honeymoon, or as the detective insisted to call it – _journey_ – which not even the surfeit of water around them, or the copious food John insisted to order, could spoil. They stayed in Venice three days and nights and not a single minute of it would ever be forgotten by Sherlock, who’d stored the memories into the coffers of his mind, where they would repose until the last syllable of his recorded time.

 

* * *

 

The four men were sitting in a private room at the Ambassador Club. A bevy of respectful waiters clustered around their table, but were quickly dispatched by a simple wave of the be-ringed hand of Mr Maundy Gregory.

“I don’t think food is in any way appropriate, but we may perhaps have a drink, later,” he suggested.

Mycroft bent his head a fraction, in deferential agreement, while Sherlock grimaced and John bit his lips in order to avoid proffering the colourful words that he had in mind.

“I can’t express the full extent of my gratitude; neither verbally nor in a more substantial fashion; I have arranged a generous sum to be transferred to your account as agreed, but it doesn’t seem quite sufficient,” the rubicund man said.

“You could have told us the truth; that would have meant more than any recompense, Sir,” John replied.

Mycroft opened his mouth but Maundy Gregory treated him in the same way as he had his waiters, eliciting a snigger from the younger Holmes.

“I would lie if I said I wasn’t expecting your rage and displeasure, but let me just assure you that every possible avenue was explored and found wanting. Those cunning devils had spent years in creating a vast retinue of disciples; among them are politicians, industrialists and intellectuals, all kept under constant control by means of blackmail and other shady practices, such as black magic, drugs and mesmerism. We knew Rolfe had been brave and foolish enough to write down the truth about them, but more to the point, we knew Benson was bent on revenge; his brother, poor Arthur, was constantly worried about the boy’s eccentricity and his tendency to fly into the most violent tempers.”

The Holmes brothers exchanged eloquent looks: of approval on one side, and disdain on the other. Back in the day John would have smiled, but he was still irate with Mycroft and certain that he could never wholly forgive him for endangering Sherlock’s life. Perversely, his husband had taken it in his stride, even fostering a reluctant admiration for the twisted ingenuity of his brother’s plan.

“But only Moriarty and von Gloeden have been eliminated; what about the rest of the organisation; what about the Beast who holds black masses in the Masonic temple? The generals may have been executed, but what of the foot soldiers?” the detective enquired.

“The danger is not imminent; they will need time to regroup and find other leaders; besides, they can no longer count on the money of their victims. All the photographic materials owned by von Gloeden have been destroyed.”

“What happened to the Hardinge boy?” John asked.

“I believe he went back to Oxford; he’s a Balliol man, if I am not mistaken.”

“And nothing will happen to him.”

“I didn’t say that, Dr Watson; the world is full of coincidental happenings and fortuitous occurrences,” the older man replied, gazing at his signet ring is if it contained the solution to their problem. It crossed John’s mind that the trinket may be a receptacle for poison, but he soon dismissed the silly idea; when he met Sherlock’s gaze, his husband quirked his lips into a half-smile.

 _Mind-reading devil_ , he thought and deeply regretted the presence of the other men that prevented him from kissing the smugness off the detective’s mouth.

It was obvious they weren’t to be told more than they already knew, since Mycroft was there to protect the interests of Westminster.

“I hope you will not destroy the manuscript,” Sherlock said.

“Never,” the man replied, and Mycroft added, “It’s in a safe place, away from prying eyes and greedy hands.”

“However,” Maundy Gregory continued, casting a reproving glance at the elder Holmes, “As to the other documents that you most kindly procured for me, I intend to have them edited and published.”

The detective’s eyes shone, and John knew precisely what it meant.

“In this case, Sir, there is something you could do for me.”

“Anything within my powers, my dear Sherlock,” Maundy Gregory said, his eyes still fixed on Mycroft, effectively forcing him to stay silent.

 

* * *

 

The Lyons tea rooms on the Strand were teaming and buzzing with life: little bees in black uniforms, white aprons and immaculate beribboned caps drifted here and there, taking orders, serving food and drinks, and generally sauntering about as if sun-dazed.

“Do you know they are having a staff competition to choose a new nickname for the waitresses? It seems Gladys is too old-fashioned and I can’t say I disagree. I’ve been told by that sweet blonde girl who brought us tea that Nippy is the favourite at the moment; should we place a bet?” Vincent O’Sullivan said, grinning at Sherlock’s incredulous expression and John’s amused one.

They were having afternoon cream tea, with a colourful array of cakes and little mounds of buns stacked on the delicate china plates.

“I think perhaps you should stay away from betting,” the doctor suggested.

“I’m sure you are right,” the American concurred, “Money troubles run in the family, and I don’t fancy a return to my destitute ways.”

“Are you enjoying your new assignment?” the detective asked, picking at a slice of lemon tart.

“I absolutely adore it, my friend, but don’t think for a moment that I haven’t figured out the identity of my fairy godmother,” the man replied, winking at John, who reciprocated.

“It was simply a matter of applying the law of supply and demand: you needed an occupation and Mr Maundy Gregory needed a skilled man of letters,” Sherlock replied; he disliked compliments and gratitude unless they came from his husband, but was extremely glad of having provided a situation for the impoverished poet.

“Of course, my dear, nothing but the cold and impersonal diktats of market economics,” O’Sullivan joked. “I drink to that and to your nuptials,” he added, raising a mug of milky tea to his lips.

“We are very happy,” John replied, simply. He held out his hand and Sherlock took it in his, without hesitation.

“Indeed, we are,” he agreed, giving up on the food and lighting a cigarette instead.

Some things would take longer to change, John mused; but they had all the time in the world.

 

* * *

 

The time was fast approaching to John’s first day at the Royal Dispensary and – as the days went by – Sherlock became increasingly moody and petulant: experiments were initiated and discarded all over the flat; awful, dissonant chords were played on the violin and repeated ad infinitum; sexual intercourse was either absent or obsessively requested at every hour of day or night.

The fateful morning came and John woke up to an empty bed; when he left for work his husband was nowhere to be seen, which probably meant he was consorting with his skull in the study.

He felt terribly lonely, but there was nothing to do but grin and bear it. The day was exciting and demanding in equal measure, but despite being constantly busy, there was a weight on John's chest that never dissipated; a pain in his heart that ached with every breath he took.

In the evening, after his shift, he toyed with the idea of going to the pub, but decided otherwise. He shouldn’t be cowardly, but rather face Sherlock and have it out with him; their marriage wouldn’t end because of a disagreement, nothing could have that power, but he didn’t want a silly dispute over work to cause them any more heartache.

He opened the door quietly, ready to face a cold, empty flat, but what he found was a candle-lit paradise, in the midst of which, atop a pile of cushions, sat his gorgeous and stark-naked husband.

“There’s a glass of brandy just waiting for you,” Sherlock said, his voice as dark as the night.

“I will be back in a moment, my dear,” John said, kissing his boy’s beloved face.

When he returned from the wash-room, he’d discarded his clothes, grabbed his flagon of oil and concocted a plan of action.

“You did that on purpose,” he said.

“Not completely, but maybe a bit,” the detective replied, batting his eyes.

“On all fours,” John ordered, and as his husband obeyed, he slicked his hands and used two fingers to open him up, roughly and swiftly.

“Make it good for me and don’t come until I tell you,” he said, curtly.

“Yes, yes,” the young man moaned, already lost in the moment.

Instead of entering him, John took his own erection in hand and used it to slap his husband’s reddened entrance; each hit was twinned to a sharp tug at the boy’s nape curls.

Sherlock was shaking and crying and enjoying every twisted second of it.

“Sit on me, make me come,” John panted, when he knew he couldn’t wait any longer.

He helped his trembling husband by holding him up and guiding him down; he’d penetrated him several times already, but the intense ecstasy of it always made him blind and deaf for a long while.

In this instance, Sherlock did not allow him to regain his breath; he bounced up and down his length, moaning wildly, tearing at his own hair.

“Oh yes, that’s so good, yes,” was all the blond man could say, as his lover circled his hips to better enjoy John’s considerable girth. He came shouting his boy’s name, scratching at the lean chest and crushing the rosy, erect nipples.

“I need to… please… I can’t,” John heard him babble, through the thick haze of his orgasm.

As swiftly as he could, he replaced his cock with his fingers, delighting in the scream that came out of the boy’s bitten-off lips and descended on his swollen, dripping erection. It immediately stiffened and spilled abundantly down John's throat.

“More, more,” Sherlock sobbed; and amazingly, another climax, less violent but as rich, followed the first one.

“You never cease to astonish me,” John marvelled.

They were sprawled above the cushions, like a couple of louche pashas.

“I could say the same,” the detective replied, squeezing his husband’s hand.

“Next time, though, I’d prefer to be forewarned about the sort of games you intend to play. I spent days worrying about you; about us.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow and placed his husband’s hand above his own heart.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, my dear; it wasn’t entirely a game; I was uneasy about you leaving me alone.”

“It’s just a few days a week, my darling,” John replied, kissing the boy’s flushed check. “Besides, I shall be able to provide you with new adventures. I saw Mike at lunch and he mentioned the corpse of a man fished out of the Thames. They don’t know who he is, but his clothes were from Savile Row.”

The detective sat up, his face rapt and excited: “Victor Grayson!” he shouted.

“Yes, that’s what I thought too,” the doctor concurred, smiling at the boy’s elation.

“Oh, by the by, have a look at this,” Sherlock exclaimed, pointing at a column on the Evening Standard’s afternoon edition.

“Oh dear Lord,” the doctor exclaimed, as he read. “Lawrence is planning an expedition to Egypt in the company of his great friend Ms Mary Overgaard and of a brilliant Oxford pupil, Mr William Hardinge.”

“It seems Colonel Lawrence has found someone who will discipline him when he desires it,” Sherlock smirked.

“You think Hardinge…?” John suggested, looking a little puzzled.

“Oh, most definitely; his cruel eyes and the way he touched me testified to his real proclivities.”

“The desert can be deadly.”

“Indeed.”

“Although, you can be quite deadly too, my love,” John quipped, pinching the tiny, sweet roll of fat above his husband’s navel.

“Oh, shut up and light me a cigarette,” Sherlock huffed, and was readily obeyed.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated! :)


End file.
